


In the Twilight Edge

by Zetared



Series: The Laugher 'Verse [1]
Category: Star Trek: The Next Generation
Genre: Alternate Universe, Canon-Typical Violence, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-11
Updated: 2015-07-11
Packaged: 2018-04-08 18:08:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 28,686
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4315140
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zetared/pseuds/Zetared
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"One never knows when the subject might turn to Ventanan archaeology." – Kamala, “The Perfect Mate”</p>
            </blockquote>





	In the Twilight Edge

By moonlight, the desert was like something from a dream. Cast in silver-blue light, the white sands seemed luminous, as if the planet itself were lit from within. The word ‘dazzling’ certainly came to mind, and Dr. Picard found himself grateful that his guide had been so insistent that he purchase the re-fitted “night-eyes” for this dig. The headgear was not comfortable, but the wrap-around lenses cut through the brightness, somewhat, greatly relieving the strain on his eyes as he took in the smooth, endless expanse of shining white.

 _‘It’d be a bit like snow blindness_ ,’ he thought, re-adjusting the frames for the third time. He would get used to it, eventually—he’d have to, considering that the island was in its dark season. Six hours of good daylight for every eighteen of night. The team’s work would be primarily conducted in the moon-time. He was only grateful that the orbiting rock reflected the light of the planet’s dual suns so strongly; otherwise, he might have needed to sacrifice the majority of his grants for lamps. As it was, the two large flood lights they carried would be more than enough to keep them in business, even once their work progressed more deeply into the caves.

“You feeling okay, boss?”

Picard smiled wryly at their guide. Kwin had a laid-back, amiable nature that seemed inherent in the Ventanan race. She was much younger than he had expected, but so far her services had been exemplary. Kwin’s knowledge of her people’s history could not be paralleled, and her willingness to assist the archaeological team in their daily tasks knew no bounds. Picard knew that the grant committee had put up a sizeable donation toward paying Kwin’s agency, but even so he could help but feel a little guilty over how many hours she’d already spent among them, helping them prepare for this long desert trek.

“I’m all right. The night-eyes feel a little strange.”

Kwin’s mouth twisted a little in a smirk. “Yeah. I told them back at the office that they wouldn’t feel right to you people. Made the alterations they could, I guess, but we’re not used to dealing with two-eyed types.”

Picard couldn’t help but let his gaze flicker over Kwin’s own eyes; it wasn’t unheard of to encounter quad-ocular species, of course, but it was rare, and the front-set eyes of the Ventanan peoples were truly beautiful. Kwin’s irises were especially lovely behind the smoky lenses of her night-eyes, a perfect gradient from dark purple to a lush woodland green—colors that the people of this desert island had likely never seen occur in nature. As far as Picard’s team had determined, the island was nothing but sand with a few tiny man-made oases between.

“They’re more than acceptable. I’m just not used to wearing things on my face,” Picard assured her. He turned a little in his seat and gestured out to the west. “Is that where the wetlands once were?”

“As far as our geologists and those types can tell, yeah. Would have stretched a good few _timbras_. Big old bit of wet.” The Universal Translator did its best to convert measurements into terms Picard would understand and vice versa, but _timbra_ had alluded him, so far. As best he could tell, it was something like a league.

“It’s hard to believe, now, isn’t it? Remarkable, how much even the planet can change in a few thousand years.”

Kwin laughed. She did that a lot. Picard wasn’t sure if she found him especially amusing or if she reacted to everything that way. “If by ‘a few thousand’ years you mean several _hundreds_ of thousands.”

“Yes, of course,” Picard agreed, warmly. It was a truly beautiful evening, and he was pleased by how smooth the ride had been, so far. The Ventanan’s personal transports hadn’t seemed like much on the surface, but the square-ish vehicle hovered beautifully over the surface of the sands, barely disturbing the small grains below as it passed quickly by. The hovercrafts had struck Picard as intensely odd, at first, but now he chalked it up to their bizarre color schemes—all the vehicles he had seen were painted in glaring neon hues in a variety of dizzying patterns.

When he asked his guide about it, she laughed again. “It’s real blank out here, Doc. Never-ending expanse of white, you know? White sands, pale sky, pale sun. There’s only two things on this island can be real colorful, and our cars are one of ‘em.”

“And the other thing?”

Her teeth were very white in the moon-glow, contrasting even more sharply than usual against her dappled, blue-black skin. Her front-most teeth were longer than the rest, making her look rather rabbit-ish, adding another level of humor to her easy-going grin. “The people, of course.”

\--

 _Hear me, god-like of the starry sky._  
Hear me, laugher, creator, teacher.  
Hear me, immortal you.

 _Make me wise, today._  
Make me brave, today.  
Make me good, today.  
  
But not too smart, eh, you.  
Not too courageous, eh, you.  
Not too wholesome, eh, you.

 _Keep me balanced._  
Keep me stable.  
Keep me equal, as all beings are in this unending cosmos. – _Traditional Ventanan Devotional_

\--

Adrian Boyle was there at the camp to meet them. Boyle was a good man, not too much younger than Picard himself. The man was a credit to the field, and professionally he was a boon. Personally, Picard also enjoyed his company immensely. As a child, Boyle, too, had flirted with ideas of exploring the wide frontier of space. Whereas Picard had dropped out of the Academy to pursue a more academic approach to archaeology, however, Boyle had stayed in. Picard was grateful to Starfleet for loaning one of their most renowned Science Officers out, even if only in the short term.

“How’s it treating you, Mr. Boyle?” Kwin greeted as she jumped nimbly from the car.

“Just fine, Ms. Kwin, just fine. Bit of a difference between this place and the _Venture_ , I admit, but I’ll shake off the culture shock quickly enough, I think.”

“Ah, well, here, then. Nothin’ to help integrate yourself into the community better than a good drink,” Kwin said, tossing a small glass bottle toward the man. Boyle caught it easily and squinted at the label a while.

“I don’t have a clue what this is, but I’m as willing as any man.” Boyle cut his gaze toward Picard. “If it’s all right with you, sir?”

Picard shook his head a little. He’d been trying to break Boyle of that ‘sir’ habit for the past three weeks. Starfleet conditioning was a stubborn thing, however, and he was becoming resigned to it. “I’ve no problem with it, but I’d like to get the car unloaded and everything set up, first.”

That said, the three of them set to work. The equipment was heavy, but set up was a simple enough task, and they were easily able to keep up a running conversation that made the time go quickly. It wasn’t long until the conversation became an impromptu question and answer session with Kwin, but the young woman didn’t seem to mind filling in the gaps for them.

Picard spent most of the time pacing the edge of one of the deeper caves, setting up some of their hand-held lights. Later, he’d like to follow the cave walls to the temple proper. He’d seen the schematics many, many times and had studied the images taken by the initial discovers of the site at length. Even so, he had yet to set foot into the dig in person. He had a great need to do so alone, though he couldn’t explain that compulsion very clearly. He’d participated in hundreds of temple digs in his career, but it was rare that he felt so thoroughly…invested…in the site. It seemed more respectful, somehow, to wait until he was alone before facing the altar of this abandoned god.

“Oh, the Laugher isn’t abandoned,” Kwin set him straight later that evening as they passed the bottle around. The liquor was almost cloyingly sweet, coating the drinker’s tongue with each small sip. It was also extremely potent, as Picard had learned two or three passes in. He felt lightheaded and dreamy, making it all the easier to be pulled into Kwin’s warm, informative tones. “We got a lot of gods around this planet—lots of different cultures, you know, believing different things. But the Laugher is practically global—goes by different names and faces, but still the same. Most people on the big continents don’t have the faith, anymore. Us islanders, though, we’ve retained a lot of it. It’s part of being one with the desert, you know. In the desert, you get sand, sun, and gods. That’s just how it goes.”

“I read a few of the myths and much of the relevant history,” Picard assured her—it would have been very poor work indeed if he hadn’t read up on the culture before accepting the dig. “I must admit I’m surprised to hear that this religion is still in practice. Often we find that close religious ties mean that research by outsiders is restricted—aren’t your people upset that we’ll be treading on holy grounds?”

Kwin choked on her turn at the bottle, nearly snorting the liquid out of her long, delicate nose. “Oh, no, not at all! Maybe for some of the others. If this were a temple to the goddess of wisdom, perhaps, or one of the War Triad, you’d get some push back. This is the Laugher, though.”

“I don’t see what the difference is,” Boyle said. Boyle’s focus of study had always been more on daily life and aspects of sociology such as trade and the development of technology. Picard himself had a broader interest, but even then he could hardly call himself a theology buff. He was wondering, now, if he ought to have recruited one for the team. Perhaps one of the other members—all of whom who would be trickling slowly in over the next few days—would have more of a knack. Until then, Kwin was an immensely valuable resource, indeed.

Kwin frowned thoughtfully, apparently finding it difficult to put into words that an outsider might understand. She snapped her long, tapered fingers suddenly and dug into her cloth satchel, pulling out the key ring that she’d used on the car. There were a few Ventanan-style keys—thin and rounded on the locking end, inset with special microchips—and a few decorative fobs the like of which were also quite popular among Humans, even today. After a bit of fussing, she managed to tug three of the fobs off of her keyring. She passed them around with the bottle.

“Those are prayer tokens. Sort of talismans to keep the gods close, you know? There’s one there for Eta, the goddess of prosperity, one for Tyril—sort of a deity who protects the past, I can explain him more later if you want, it’s complicated. That last one, that’s one of the tokens for the Laugher. There’s tons of different ones for the Laugher; that’s one of the cleaner ones.”

Picard frowned in puzzlement that melted into pure curiosity as Boyle took the tokens one by one and studied them closely. As he stared at the last token, he burst into laughter, shoulders shaking with the sheer force of it. Picard took the first two tokens as they were handed to him, eyebrows drawn in thought.

The token of Eta was a shiny gold—the color of the primary currency here—and printed on both sides with the Ventanan symbol for money. It was all very suitable for a spirit of financial prosperity, and not too surprising compared to other religious tokens that Picard had encountered during the course of his studies. The second token was also standard, at least as far as he understood from Kwin’s superficial explanation. Tyril’s token was larger than the first, and it was inscribed with a quotation that Picard recognized as prominent among Ventanan scholars. The images engraved on its sides were that of several stacked rolls of parchment—antiquated but familiar symbols of knowledge—and a Ventanan mammal that Picard vaguely remembered served as a symbol for wisdom, rather like the owl in many Earth cultures.

Boyle was still giggling a little as he handed the third token over. Picard glanced down at the piece reflexively and choked back a rush of surprise and, he had to admit, some embarrassment. He didn’t know _much_ about Ventanan anatomy, but it was _quite_ clear that what was depicted on one side of the coin was a very complicated sexual act between two Ventanan adults. The opposite side of the token was curiously blank, but as Picard ran his fingers over it searchingly he realized that this was not part of the design—the engraving had simply been worn away from repeated touch; the side of the coin was shiny and amazingly smooth. “What was--?”

“An image of the Laugher wearing his Ventanan face. Sorry you can’t see it. There are other depictions in the temple of some of his most common aspects, but if you want this coin specifically, we could pick one up for cheap at the market. Laugher’s coins are popular. People like to collect them all. Rumor has it if you collect every piece and make good use of them, you’ll be the happiest being in the cosmos.”

This set Boyle off on another round of laughter. “I bet!”

Kwin smirked, but she shook her head as Picard passed the tokens back to her. “No, not like that. Not _all_ like that, anyway. The Laugher isn’t all about sex. About other things, too. Like, all right. I could tell you a story-lesson. Would that help?”

Ventanan story-lessons were something akin to Human fairytales with morals about how to best behave. Picard had heard a few in his time, but never one for this particular god. He had to admit he was quite intrigued. He was starting to realize that there might be a definite correlation between some of the more flamboyant, easy-going aspects of the island’s overall culture and this particular naughty deity. This would be one of his more memorable digs, he was sure.

“Yes, please,” Boyle chimed in, reaching hopefully for the bottle and making a face when he found it empty. Kwin snickered and reached into her tunic pocket, tossing the man a beautiful metal flask. Boyle brightened immediately and took a quick swig. He passed it over to Picard, but the man declined. He wanted a clear head for this tale.

Kwin rolled her shoulders and closed her two outermost eyes. Picard remembered that some of his readings had spoken of this habit—the Ventanan people moved into bi-ocular sight as a kind of meditation technique. It provided extra mental focus even as it hindered their visual input significantly.

“It starts as all Laugher stories do: One day, Laugher was traveling…”

\--

 _One day, Laugher was traveling. He was looking for something new and interesting. Laugher had been alone a long time, and he was bored. He walked in the marshlands, and he walked for many_ timbras _seeing nothing but wet and plants and a lot of bugs._

_“This is terrible!” exclaimed the Laugher, annoyed. He was eaten all through by bugs, and he was tired, and he was hungry, and he reeked of green, sticky things that lived in the water._

_The Laugher complained so much and so loudly that eventually someone heard him. That someone was a boat-girl, the daughter of a fishing man. Her boat was small but fast, and she had been floating along the marsh for a long while, seeking out something new and interesting._

_“Hello!” called the boat-girl._

_“Yes, what do you want?” snapped the god, because the Laugher is rarely kind, especially when tired._

_“I don’t want anything. I want to keep floating on. I’m looking for something new and interesting.”_

_“I’m looking for that, too!” the god said, surprised. “You should probably know,_ I’m _quite interesting, though I am not new.”_

_“Are you?” And boat-girl didn’t believe him, really. He didn’t look so interesting. He was just a man walking in the swamp. The only interesting thing about him was his eyes, and that was because he only had two, and they were all one color—a muddy one, like the color of the marsh. The boat-girl felt sad for the man, then, because he was clearly half-blind and in need of help. She humored him. “Oh, yes. I see. You are very interesting.”_

_The god smiled at the girl, quite taken with her, then, because he is a vain thing and susceptible to flattery._

_“Do you want to get on my boat?” the boat-girl asked. “I can take you wherever you want to go, and this boat is much faster than your feet.”_

_And the Laugher was_ very _sick of walking, so he did. And then the two of them floated along together for many more_ timbras _, and they were not entirely new and interesting to each other, but they were not boring_.

\--

Picard was surprised when Kwin opened all of her eyes, indicating the story was done. “Is that it?”

Kwin shrugged. “Most Laugher stories end suddenly. Part of his way.”

“But what was the moral?” Boyle questioned, quite drunkenly.

Kwin’s four eyes blinked rapidly at them, a signal of surprise. “Maybe it doesn’t translate very well,” she hazarded, frowning slightly. “I could tell another one?”

Picard, still puzzling over the strange tale, shook his head. “Not for me, thank you. I think I’m going to get some sleep. I’d like to tackle the ruins outside the caves during the daylight hours, if possible. Kwin, will you be joining Mr. Boyle and me at the site this evening?”

Kwin shook her head. “No. Sleeping on the floor isn’t good. I’m going home. Come back tomorrow early.” Kwin stood then and gathered up her belongings. Boyle tried to offer her the flask back, but she just grinned and pushed it back into his hands. “A gift. Makes up for my bad storytelling.”

“Goodnight, Kwin,” Picard offered in farewell. He made a sound of startled surprise as the young woman stepped forward suddenly and pressed her cheek to his own and then again on the opposite side—a sort of Ventanan embrace. Between two Ventanans, the gesture would put the outer eyes right in sight of each other.

“Goodnight, Doc. Eh, though, don’t sleep too far into the cave, okay? Laugher won’t like it, people sleeping in his spaces. He’s not a god of charity.”

Picard frowned after her, not sure if she was being serious or not. Kwin appeared to have a relatively casual approach to her faith, at least where the so-called Laugher was concerned, but it was difficult to determine, sometimes, where the lines were drawn in regards to cultural taboos. He decided it was better to be safe than sorry and made sure to drag his and Boyle’s sleeping bags much closer to the wide mouth of the cave.

“Strange kind of god, don’t you think?” Picard whispered later as they lay on the hard stone ground, lit up by the reflected light of the moon. It was going to take a while to get used to that. He hoped he could go to sleep without too much trouble.

“Mm, not so much. I had a colleague back in the day who had a personal interest in theological archetypes—she was committed to charting the overlap between Federation cultures. Sounds like a Trickster god, to me. Earth cultures had a lot of them, back in the day. There’s a lot of them, period. Even the Vulcans had some kind of trickster-hero in their pre-Surak days, if my colleague was to be believed.”

“Why?” Picard asked, and it was comforting to be in the company of a peer who understood the deeper question—“what purpose does this archetype serve in the social growth of all of these races”—without him having to say it all. He was really very tired.

“Tricksters are about change and balance, mostly. They keep your ego from getting inflated, teach people hard-earned lessons. They also break social taboos that mere mortals cannot. Their stories are lessons, sometimes, but mostly they are sort of seen as…cosmic clowns, I suppose. They aren’t always pleasant, but they are usually good for a laugh, and they help encourage spiritual growth and thinking outside the box.”

Picard mused over this information for a while, even more curious now as to what they would find when they started to excavate in earnest. “You know a lot about it. Perhaps I should make you my expert in all things Laugher.”

Boyle just snored loudly in response. Picard, quite uncharacteristically, really, fought the urge to laugh.

\--

The sun arrived far too quickly, and with it Kwin and the rest of the team. Picard had wanted to keep the team relatively small and manageable. The dig site was rather cramped, and there wasn’t a lot in the way of heavy-lifting to be done—the temple hadn’t been buried very deeply. It had been under a dune, mostly, and much of the sand cover had shifted completely away in the most recent sandstorm. The locals had been vaguely interested in the site, but, as Kwin had assured them, weren’t too bothered by strangers poking around. If anything, the people of the island desert seemed excited by the opportunity for tourism and interaction with species unlike themselves. Venta as a planet was friendly with other races, and in some areas the tourism business boomed—no one was quite as intrigued by endless moonlit sands as they were other, more temperate climates on the main continent, however.

Picard’s team included himself and Boyle, two humans with Starfleet connections; a Vulcan female with an interest in xenolinguistics, direct from the VSA; a Betazoid individual with a specialty in restoring historical art; and a young Caitian male who, according to his application, was in need of an internship to pad his Starfleet application. Kwin, though not an official member of the team, had been added to Picard’s mental roster just a few short minutes after meeting her—she was, for an intents and purposes, his expert on the culture and theological history in relation to the site.

Introductions were made as quickly as possible. Everyone was eager to make use of the daylight while it lasted. Picard was pleased to find that the majority of his team seemed to mesh quite well already. All of the late comers had travelled together for at least some part of the trip, and it seemed unlikely that there would be any jarring conflicts of personality that may impede their progress. Picard’s last dig—a much more delicate operation in the Argala System—had been rife with such petty interpersonal problems. He’d vowed to _never_ operate on a contract like that again. This dig was completely different. It was easy, almost intimate, and, best of all, he’d been able to hand-pick his fellows. Picard had many faults, but being a poor judge of character was not one of them.

“Dr. Picard? I just wanted to say, I’m very grateful to you for this opportunity. It isn’t often that Betazoids are allowed the chance to take part in such endeavors.”

People were, by and large, suspicious of telepaths. Picard had seen first-hand the kind of unfounded prejudice that existed against races who possessed abilities that others—especially Humans—found strange or invasive. The Federation was not entirely free of such concerns, and even the short time he’d spent at the Academy had given him a thorough lesson in the difficulties inherent in intra-alien interactions. “You’re at the top of your field, and your work comes highly recommended to me. I am honored to have you on the team, Mx. Emzad.”

“Please,” xe said, smiling very warmly in the face of such commendation, “Call me Tek.”

Picard returned the smile, and Tek went on xir way, seemingly quite keen on investigating the mosaic slabs that had just been clearer earlier that morning. Picard hoped that the stones weren’t too damaged. If possible, he’d quite like to take one of them back for the Institute that had hired them—assuming, of course, that the Ventanan government were agreeable.

When Picard took a break from his own back-breaking hunch over a piece of delicate stonework, T’Dara, the Vulcan linguist, met him at the water jugs. She watched patiently as he filled his bottle, but declined as he stepped away and offered her the spout. “I am a member of the desert clans. I do not require regular hydration to remain in adequate health.”

Picard took a drink—he _did_ require regular hydration, and he had been rather remiss, in fact. “What can I do for you?”

“There are markings on the pillars we have cleared which may be written text. Although my knowledge of Ventanan languages is extensive, I am unfamiliar with the alphabet used. Would it be permissible for me to enlist the expert opinion of our guide in this matter?”

Picard was surprised by the question. He was used to his fellows working with much more autonomy. In truth, however, he was gratified by her conscientiousness. It was rare that his peers show the site—and he himself—so much respect as to check in. “That would be quite acceptable, I think, as long as Kwin is amendable.”

T’Dara inclined her head in thanks, and Picard kept an eye on the two women as they conversed and he finished his drink. In the end, they walked off together toward the ruins in question, and Picard again thanked his lucky stars for their guide’s vast knowledge and willingness to help.

The daylight hours went by far too quickly, but they achieved much in what little time they were given. As the suns set, the team trooped back into the cave to break for dinner and compile their data into reports. Picard hoped to eventually set up a routine of sunset meals followed by a group sharing of their findings, but as it was just the first day and they’d not even yet entered the temple, it seemed wise to let everyone involved set their own pace for the first night.

While Picard organized his own notes and set up the combined database that the team would be using, his fellows sat in small groups, breaking discoveries down and generally getting to know each other. It was somewhat amusing to watch the overtly emotional Boyle work with a reserved Vulcan scientist, and Tek Emzad seemed to be keeping xir distance from Kwin—perhaps finding the Ventanan’s thoughts a little overwhelming—but, overall, the environment was friendly and productive. Picard felt himself relaxing into the moment, relishing the murmur of voices while valuing the illusion of isolation he had created for himself by sitting against the far cave wall.

It was then that he felt the first stirrings of suspicion in his gut. The fine hairs stood up on the back of his neck, and he frowned, casting his gaze warily over the area. There didn’t seem to be anything amiss. The Caitian male—Hrow C’toah—had joined Kwin and Boyle in peering closely at some of the day’s photos on a single PADD while Tek and T’Dara spoke quietly together, Tek’s hands moving gracefully in the air to support xir words. Even so, Picard couldn’t shake the feeling that they—no, not they, but _he_ , specifically—was being watched.

Picard focused back on his task, but the feeling didn’t abate, and soon enough he was on his feet, intent to do something about it. Six pairs of curious eyes stared up at him.

“Is there something wrong, Jean-Luc?” Kwin questioned, apparently seeing something in his expression that betrayed his unsettled feelings.

Picard forced a smile. “Just a little restless. I think I might go explore the rest of the caves, if no one has any objections.”

“Do you need company?” Boyle questioned, though his gaze flickered back to the PADD in his hold regretfully.

“Many of us have not yet seen the main temple,” T’Dara agreed, and it was difficult to say by her expression and level tone if she truly wished to accompany him or was only being polite.

Picard was surprised at the depth of emotion he felt in reaction to the offers—he didn’t want company. He wanted—perhaps even needed—to proceed alone.

Tek’s soft black eyes were shrewd as xe stared at him. “Too much idle movement could cause damage to the area. Until we’ve cleared it for excavation, we should probably only go exploring one at a time. The rest of us can get a look once Dr. Picard is done.”

Picard smiled at Tek, never so grateful to have someone read his mind. “Yes, that’s good thinking. I won’t be long. I’ll even take the rest of the lights and get them set up for everyone else.”

“That is acceptable,” T’Dara agreed, already settling back into her discussion with the Betazoid. The others made murmurs of agreement and went back to their business, though Picard couldn’t help but notice that Hrow looked particularly disappointed. Picard hadn’t done much toward connecting with the young man individually, yet. He would have to do so when he came back from the temple.

“Hey, Doc!” Kwin ran after him a few steps, pressing something cool and smooth into his hand. “For luck. Make a good first impression.” Picard wasn’t too surprised when he opened his fist and found the well-worn token of the Laugher. Well, it certainly couldn’t hurt. He slipped the token into his pocket and walked on, savoring the stillness.

\--

Thousands of years previous, when the temple was new, the cave walls had been covered with ornate murals. Now, much of the paint was faded and chipped away, ravaged by time and neglect. Even so, Picard paused every few feet and held his light up, intent to make some sense of the smudges of color. All of the images depicted the Laugher, though his aspect, as Kwin had termed it, tended to vary. In most of the images, Laugher looked like any other Ventanan with four colorful eyes and dark, shiny skin. In others, Laugher presented as a strange mammalian mishmash; Picard recognized the stripped haunches of a desert-dwelling, camel-like creature and the long, cruel tongue of an _errisha_ , a type of poisonous lizard native to the island. Laugher’s disguises seemed nearly limitless in their variety. The god was only recognizable in that, no matter how he was rendered by the artist—or artists—of this place, the deity retained the same brand-like mark across the side of his neck. Picard had to compare several of the sections of the mural before he could piece the whole symbol together: it was a thick, dark line wound up and around in a shape that Picard’s Human frame of reference insisted on reading as a highly stylized letter ‘Q.’

Picard smiled wryly as he made his way along the wall—many of the images he could puzzle together were scenes similar to those on Kwin’s coin. A few of the other less faded images showed Laugher in various states of mischief. In one, he sat on the back of a boat, surrounded by the marsh—perhaps part of the story that Kwin had told the night before? Other images showed the god lording over hapless Ventanans, apparently in the midst of some trick or other. There were plenty of other depictions elsewhere, Picard knew, with the god on the other end of that particular stick. However, it did make some sense not to rub the god’s face in his failures inside his own house, as it were.

Picard snorted quietly and abandoned his wall gazing. He was allowing himself to get sucked into the illusion—assigning feelings and motivations to an imaginary being. Mythology wasn’t his main interest. He wanted to examine the architecture of the temple and any remnants of the society’s day-to-day life that may have been left behind. A similar dig on Targus I had been especially beneficial in that regard—the team had found entire jars full of ancient seeds, the only remaining detritus of plants long extinct. His clients—a company that worked primarily in natural pharmaceuticals—had been overjoyed. The last he’d heard of it, those particular blooms were making a comeback and were quite popular in Starfleet arboretums. On another occasion, several well-preserved costumes had been found in the belongings of a dead king, completely revolutionizing the way the modern inhabitants of that planet thought of their own history. There was always _something_ interesting to be found—a doorway into the long-gone past. It was that chance to see a small glimmer of the universe as it once was that made Picard so fond of his work. He wouldn’t find such a doorway hidden among crude renderings of a false god.

Slowly he made his way down the long tunnel, mood brightening considerably as he realized the walls were beginning to widen, indicating that the temple couldn’t be too far, now. The ancient Ventanans had been wise to build their temples in the natural rock formations of this region—in those days, the land had been primarily comprised of wet marshes, and constructing one’s buildings in the rocks kept the temples dry and free of the mosses. Now, the island was nothing but fine-sanded desert, no longer at risk of suffering from the damp. Even so, the rock helped to keep the temple cool and safe from the merciless glow of the planet’s dual suns and bright, often present moon. Picard doubted that the old Ventanan race had possessed quite so much foresight, but it had certainly made things easier for curious archaeologists. Every now and again, as it became too dim to see, he dropped another of their hand-held lights, throwing the painted, feral smile of the Laugher into sharp relief.

\--

_According to Ventanan religious texts, there are many gods. Of this great pantheon, however, some gods stand out more than others. These fifteen deities follow typical, necessary archetypes--gods of life and death, past and future, luck and poverty, and so forth. Some gods are so ingrained in the Ventanan consciousness that they are worshiped across all of the major continents, despite great differences between regional cultures._

_In Ventanan mythology, all of these major gods are of the so-called Great Family. They are siblings of a sort, created by the Ever-Living Mother, who formed the universe from desire and light. These gods are closely united by this pseudo-familial bond. This appreciation for the bonds of blood family is clear, too, in the cultural weight given to the extended family unit by most Ventanan societies. ‘Found family’ is an equally important aspect of Ventanan life. This, too, is echoed by in their religious works. There is one god counted among the Great Family who is blatantly named an outsider. In the texts, this deity is adopted by the Ever-Living Mother long after the creation of the world._

_This god is called Laugher, and he (or she, or sometimes they—the god’s reportedly fluid gender and ever-shifting aspect is covered more thoroughly in Chapter Three) appears in many of Ventanan stories as a sort of red-headed stepchild of the Family proper. Despite the familial disharmony, the Laugher is a very popular deity in some specific regions of the planet, most likely due to his place in the pantheon as a champion for change in an otherwise static system. – Dr. A. Q., “In the Twilight Edge: A Basic Overview of the Laughing God of Venta”_

_\--_

Stepping over the threshold from the cave into the temple sent a strange shiver down Dr. Picard’s spine. He’d been on many digs in his time, and even in his earliest days as a field rookie, he’d never felt such a visceral reaction to a site; he felt like a trespasser, as if the many eyes of the Laugher in the cave had followed him here, and now the sensation of being watched lingered.

 The space was smaller than he had expected, given Kwin’s assurances of Laugher’s standing as a prominent deity. Someone—likely the locals who had discovered the dig initially—had roped off several sections of the open space. The ropes set apart the altar—filthy, broken, and picked over, perhaps the victim of a long-ago robbery in addition to the passage of time?—and five impressive stone statues, each one, Picard assumed, representing a favored aspect of the god.

After a moment of hesitation, Picard stepped toward the altar, first. The floor of the temple was also dirty, but underneath the fine sand and chunks of fallen rock, shiny pieces of an intricate mosaic shone through. Mosaic art in religious art had a long history on Venta—it could be more difficult than he’d anticipated to determine the exact age of the temple’s structure. Picard placed the larger of the portable lights he carried with him in the corners of the room, trying to spread the light out over as much area as possible. Even then, it was much dimmer than he preferred. He sighed, already mentally writing the necessary requisition form in his head.

As he set the final light in place, turning it just so, Picard caught a flash of light from the corner of his eye. Startled, he turned to face it but saw nothing, not even an _errisha_ enjoying the shade. _‘I’m getting paranoid in my old age,’_ he thought wryly. He certainly was more on edge than usual. Perhaps he should have taken the opportunity for a vacation when it had presented itself instead of agreeing to head this dig. Or maybe it was just the generalatmosphere that this temple inspired; the sharp-grinning, bright eyed statues and severe-looking adornments on the smooth stone walls were more menacing than Picard had anticipated.

‘ _Of course, Jean-Luc,’_ Picard berated himself as he turned his attention back to the wobbly light, _‘Blame the ancient Ventanans for your unease. You know very well that those bleak-looking flourishes are indicative of the aesthetic during the reign of The Thrice-Married Queen. It’s meant to invoke feelings of respectful piety, not this baseless fear.”_ The Thrice-Married Queen of the Pale Isle had been rather fond of severe, stark lines and blank, colorless palettes. She believed that open, minimalistic space encouraged one to look inward instead of out. Picard felt the look completely inappropriate for a deity called The Laughing God. The temple certainly stood out in contrast to the once-bright and irreverent murals on the cave walls. On the plus side, now that he had identified the most likely influence behind the overall design of the structure, he could hazard a more accurate guess as to its time of development. He smiled a little, pleased as always to find himself surrounded by something at once so old and so tangible. The Thrice-Married Queen had ruled over three-thousand Venta-standard years ago.

Lights in place, Picard turned his attention to the now moderately lit space. The altar was, indeed, in a bad way. Considering that it had been broken in half, some sort of vandalism seemed likely. Large gouges in the surface suggested that it had once been inlaid with metal or precious stones. The absence of those adornments confirmed the possibility of burglary in Picard’s initial assessment. Boyle would have more to say on the subject—the man knew a lot of the trends of temple and grave robbers in history. For now, Picard simply felt gratitude toward the local populace for keeping the site safe and well-marked. He hoped that no enterprising thieves would appear during the course of the dig; the last time it’d come to a squabble with potential robbers, his arm had been broken. Fist fights over priceless historical artifacts was a young man’s game, and Picard was no longer a spry student following at the heels of his mentor.

With a sigh of regret, Picard turned away from the mangled altar and made a wide arc around the room to examine the statues, instead. The addition of light did not help to make them any less menacing. In fact, the shadows the stone artifacts threw up on the smooth, blank walls seemed to have minds of their own. More than once, the man found himself startled by an unexpected movement in the corner of his eye, only to turn and find the shifting shadows at fault.

The five statues were relatively familiar after his walk through the cave passage. One, the tallest of the lot, stood in the center, flanked in four corners by four smaller depictions. Much to Picard’s surprise, the larger, center figure was not one of the popular four-eyed Ventanan forms of the Laughter—those aspects made up two of the smaller four, the one closest to the cave mouth, and the one diagonal to it. One of the Ventanan forms had the markings of a female: larger eyes, longer front teeth, and a particular pattern in the dappled appearance of the skin. The other Ventanan form was male-coded: thicker torso, sharper incisors, skin with few to no splotchy markings. The small figure directly across from the female-coded Ventanan was that of the strange chimera-like mammal, posed in an absurd near pirouette, all the animal’s weight balanced on a single cloven hoof. The other smaller statue was that of an odd, abstract shape—the stone pieces of which had been suspended on thin wires in such a way as to allow certain bits to oscillate in the most gentle of breezes. The tallest of the forms was, much to Picard’s confusion and surprise, blatantly Human, or some species very close to it. The figure was male-coded with short, vaguely wavy hair and a face that had been chiseled in the midst of a smug sneer. The man was wearing a simple tunic and trousers typical of the ancient Ventanan style, nondescript as the Human-like form itself was, save for that memorable smirk. After circling the statues a few more times, Picard was able to confirm that all five figures had that same brand-like insignia engraved on the neck.

 _‘I will need to ask Kwin about the myth behind that mark—some way to keep the Laugher from causing trouble in disguise, no doubt. What an interesting idea_. _Perhaps the symbol is representative of the Laugher himself—another recognizable marker to put on the prayer tokens.’_

On that thought, Picard pulled the borrowed token from his pocket and turned it over a few times in his palm, frowning down at it. Something still seemed strange, though his earlier paranoia had calmed considerably with the assistance of the lights. Kwin had warned him that Laugher was not a god of charity, and Picard still had that creeping, discomfited feeling of intrusion. What was it about the Ventanan’s stories that had him so on edge? While Picard had always tried to be respectful of the cultures he had studied over the years, he strove to maintain a professional distance. He’d never allowed himself to be pulled in so thoroughly, before. ‘ _Perhaps the character just resonates with me, as legends so often do. Such an association is harmless—no more insidious than feeling a kinship with Dixon Hill or one of the tragic heroes in Shakespeare’s works.’_

It was then that all of the lights went out. The temple was thrown into complete darkness. Even the small lights he had left in the cave were gone. Startled, Picard tensed, turning reflexively toward the direction he knew one of the lights to be in. Before he could take so much as a single step, however, _something_ pushed against his chest. Unprepared and overbalanced, he fell heavily onto his back. Stunned and breathless, Picard lay still on the mosaic tile, staring up into the inky dark. “What the devil?” he muttered aloud, more irritated than alarmed.

“’Devil’ is a bit harsh, isn’t it? We’ve only just met! Does my reputation proceed me?”

Picard scrambled into a sitting position on the floor, not daring to get to his feet when he had no idea of where in the temple he’d ended up. “Who is that? What have you done to my lights?”

“’Light is a deceptive force. It’s only in darkness that a man can truly know himself.’ Funny folk-ism from a race of people with so many eyes, isn’t it?”

The voice seemed much closer, that time, and Picard found himself instinctively turning his head toward it. “I am Doctor Jean-Luc Picard, head archaeologist and representative of the Daystrom Institute. This site has been placed under the protection of the Institute and the local government. You are trespassing and interfering with a--.”

“Oh, how tiresome, Jean-Luc, really. _I’m_ not the one trespassing.” Picard jumped at the warm brush of breath against his ear. The intruder had him in a vulnerable position, now. There were hands on his shoulders, a heavy weight. Picard could feel warmth at his back. He could attack with his elbow in this position, but something held him back from it.

“I will call my team,” Picard said, managing to make it sound like a warning, though, in truth, there was little that his little group of academics could do besides present a force in numbers. Boyle, perhaps, had the right amount of Starfleet combat training, but he carried no phaser here.

“Oh, please do. It’s only fair that I be properly introduced to guests, even when uninvited. Tell me, Doctor, do you plan to smash something to bits like the last ones? If so, I suggest those hideous vases. I’ve always hated them. Of course, if it’s wealth you’re after, you’re too late. The last group took everything that has any monetary worth. And most of what had sentimental value, too.”

The presence against his back disappeared, the voice moving away, though still quite close. Picard relaxed immediately. He frowned thoughtfully during the other’s little tirade, thinking of the smashed altar. “You’ve seen the damage, as well, then? What are you, some sort of guardian of the temple? The Ventanans neglected to mention posting any security here. It seemed unnecessary, considering the desert.”

“Oh, Jean-Luc. You are exceptionally stupid for a mortal. Then again, what can you expect from the Human race? You’re barely out of the primordial soup.”

Picard scowled at the insult, offended despite himself. “Perhaps if you hadn’t knocked out all of my lights and startled me, I could think more clearly. A little more information would be helpful, too. You could start by answering my questions.”

“Where would be the fun in that? All right, Johnny. I’ll give you the benefit of the doubt, shall I? I’ll turn on the lights. That should help clear things up for you. ‘Seeing is believing,’ isn’t that right?”

Even with the warning, the sudden flare of light caused Picard to flinch and close his eyes. When he opened them again, he found the glow significantly increased, more in line with what he had wanted from the lamps in the first place. In such bright light, it was impossible not to notice the other living figure in the small space.

“Impossible,” Picard breathed, slowly standing up from the floor.

“I’ve always found it interesting how that word breaks down in Standard. Impossible is just ‘I’m possible’ with fewer embellishments.” The smirk the man wore was an exact replica of the tall stone statue standing behind him. There was no doubt whatsoever about the similarity—the wavy hair was a dark brown with just a touch of gray, the brown eyes held that spark of arrogance that the Ventanan artists had so perfectly captured in the rock. Picard found his eyes darting from the man’s face to his neck. There it was, just peeking out from the high collar—that symbol like a stylized Q.

Picard wished he’d stayed seated on the ground. As it was, his knees went out and he sat ungracefully down again, head spinning. _‘He cannot possibly be a_ god _,’_ Picard scolded himself, _‘He’s a shyster, perhaps. A man who makes a living impersonating ancient deities_.’

The man—Picard refused to think of him as ‘Laugher’—raised his eyebrows, his two Human-like eyes widening in mocking surprise. “An _impersonator_? How ridiculous! Is the truth really so hard for you to believe, that you’d go grasping at such weak straws? Oh, _mon docteur_! You are going to be a riot, I can tell.”

Jean-Luc Picard had not become a hero. He hadn’t taken to the stars as a brave, bold, and cunning starship Captain. Even so, he was no stranger to the dangers of the universe, and he certainly wasn’t the sort to back down from the strange and threatening. Expression stony and dark, he took to his feet once more, refusing to allow his knees to betray him. The other man was quite tall, but Picard clenched his fists and refused to feel loomed over. “I will thank you to stay out of my thoughts.”

“Oh, how quaint! You feel it isn’t fair. All right, then, Johnny. I’ll keep my metaphysical hands to myself, for now. I do love a good challenge. Besides, I’ve already seen what I needed to know. You _aren’t_ here to destroy what’s left of my temple.”

“No. We’re scientists, researchers. We wish to learn more about the history of this place and the people who worshipped here.”

The Laugher yawned widely in response. He lifted a hand and snapped. There was a familiar flash of light—Picard _knew_ he’d seen something from the corner of his eye—and an ornate chair appeared. The…being? Entity? Certainly _not_ ‘god’…sat down, crossing his legs neatly at the ankle.

“Ah, yes. Mortal creatures are always so enamored with the past. I suppose you have to be, being so _linear_.” He spat the final word out as if it were ash in his mouth. Somehow, Picard knew that the disgust was more affectation than reality, however. The Laugher was trying to wind him up. Well, Picard was no stranger to being bullied and teased by stronger boys. He had an older brother, after all.

“We seek to learn from the past to improve our futures,” Picard replied, calmly. He couldn’t help but shift his weight a bit, however. Even wearing his thick-soled work boots, the uneven floor of the temple was not pleasant to stand upon, especially with such a rigid posture as he currently held.

The Laugher’s expressive face twisted into an apologetic expression. “Where are my manners? Please, Jean-Luc, take a seat.”

Picard couldn’t help but shout in surprise as the entity snapped again—it felt like gravity doubled against him and he was knocked off his feet once more. The fall was short but rough, his backside slamming hard against the magically appearing chair. Picard couldn’t help but note that it was decidedly less comfortable and decorated than the Laugher’s own. Still, it was poor diplomacy not to express gratitude where hospitality was given—he’d been in the Academy long enough to pick _that_ up. “Thank you.”

The Laugher waved a hand dismissively. “Yes, yes. No trouble at all. Now, tell me, Dr. Picard: what important historical discovery do you hope to find in the temple of little old me?”

“Nothing specific,” Picard replied, speaking slowly. He still felt a bit wrong-footed, here, and he was hesitant to accidentally invite the ire of this…person. Turning off lights and making furniture appear from thin air were hardly the types of godly miracles one might expect, but he didn’t want to test the extent of the Laugher’s powers personally, either. “We have been invited by the ruling government of this island to excavate whatever we can that may have cultural worth to the Ventanan race.”

Picard pointed over to the vases for which Laugher had previously expressed a distaste. “Those pieces, for example, appear to predate the temple by a good two hundred Venta-standard years. That’s unusual for public buildings developed during the rule of the Thrice-Married Queen. She didn’t have much time for antiques.”

“And that’s important?”

“Quite, if you know your Ventanan history. You see, when the Thrice-Married Queen--.”

“You can just call her Kadastra, you know. She was a remarkably informal monarch, once you got on her good side.”

“Ah…yes. Well. In the early years of her rein, she was considered too young to rule without input from her three husbands—or her intended husbands, as they were at the time. While it is pure speculation at this juncture, I feel confident in assuming that the vases were a recommendation made by her Secondary Husband, the Viscount. There are several primary accounts from the palace in the Ventanan historical archive that indicate the Viscount had a deep affection for ceramics from the Two Coin Period—a time of great financial prosperity two hundred years prior to, ah, Kadastra’s rule.”

“My, you _do_ know your history,” Laugher said, and there was no mistaking the drawling tone of mockery in his voice. Picard did his best to quell the immediate rush of anger he felt at the tone. It was far too much like Robert’s teasing when they were boys. The difference was that Picard was a grown man, now, and to lash out in response would be petty.

“I have studied as much as I can of this and many other cultures. It’s my professional duty to learn the facts of a dig before accepting the job. If you think my information is incorrect, please feel free to educate me further. I’m only telling you what the archaeological community as a whole believes.”

“Tsk, tsk, Picard. Don’t try to blame your ignorance on your fellow mortals. I’m sure all the nonsense you just regurgitated is, indeed, exactly what your idiotic peers have stated as fact. The truth of the matter, my dear doctor, is that you and your small-minded kind will never be capable of understanding your history properly. How can anyone know _anything_ unless they’ve experienced it themselves?”

“We mortals do what we can with the resources we have,” Picard replied, stiffly. “Ours is a journey of discovery. We understand that what we know now may be radically altered by a new finding. We’re not so narrow-minded as to dismiss new evidence.”

The Laugher, true to his name, just laughed—it was not as joyful sound as Picard might have expected before encountering the being himself. “That’s good to know, Picard, but I don’t believe you.”

“You doubt my dedication to the truth? It’s you who are a god of lies and trickery, not I.”

This time, the Laugher’s laugh sounded more genuine. “How direct! I don’t doubt that you _believe_ you will put the truth above all else. Can you speak for the rest of your peers in the field with such certainty? I think not. Believe me, Picard, I could provide you with plenty of truth about this history you’re so drawn to—but you wouldn’t thank me for it, and you wouldn’t want to believe it, either.”

Picard was just opening his mouth to challenge the, the...god…to put his money where his mouth was, so to speak, when he heard a soft footfall at the threshold of the temple.

“Doctor Picard? Everything all right?”

“Kwin! I was just--” as Picard turned back toward the deity, he found himself alone in the dimly lit temple, sitting once more on the mosaic floor, no conjured chairs in sight. “—taking it all in.”

The Ventanan woman smiled slightly, oblivious to the archaeologist’s strange experience. “I understand. Folks are waiting for their turn to look. Are you done in here?”

Picard nodded. He was most certainly _not_ done, but it seemed that, for now, his surreal argument with the Laugher would have to wait. It was strange, how calm he felt about the entire experience—he’d encountered many odd things in his time as the Federation’s foremost archaeologist, to be sure, but _this_ was the oddest of them all by far. In fact, he could quite easily convince himself it was all a bizarre daydream, brought on by being overtired and overwhelmed by the hours of work ahead. _‘I should be so lucky. No, it was real, all right, and I am certain I should expect to see more of him before this dig is done, too.’_ He couldn’t decide if he was more irritated or intrigued by the possibility. _‘Well, Dr. Galen always warned me that this life would never be boring. However, I don’t think he had a face-to-face encounter with a god in mind at the time.’_

\--

Picard woke not long before the dawning of the dual suns. His team stirred around him, bodies slowly rising from sleeping bags and tents. Picard watched each individual for a moment, making mental notes on how they each approached a new day. Unsurprisingly, T’Dara had been up long before even Picard, and she sat fully dressed and cross-legged on a small mat, meditating, it seemed. Tek’s hair was a tangle, xir eyes bleary, though xe perked up considerably after two cups of fire-warmed coffee. Hrow spent the majority of his morning routine engrossed in self-cleaning, running a special comb through every patch of his fur several times over. Boyle slept the latest, barely giving himself enough time to shovel a few fruit-stuffed crepes—Picard prided himself over the unusual camp meal—into his mouth before work began. Kwin had, as usual, gone back across the desert to town to sleep—it was a very long, arduous journey, but she was adamant about needing the comfort of her own bed. Picard didn’t expect her to return until well after the sun-lit hours.

Picard himself felt tired, his eyes gritty and weighted no matter how many thermoses of tea he drank during the day. He hadn’t slept well, his mind far too occupied with the startling events of the evening. When he did finally sleep, it was briefly, and though the details were hazy, he’d woken with a niggling sense of tension that spoke of nightmares. He hoped these feelings eased over the next few days; he needed to be at his best.

“Sir? What’s the order?” Boyle greeted, once he was fed and awake enough to put forth the effort.

Picard sighed but let the ‘sir’ go. “I want everyone to report to me first thing, one at a time. We’ll need to ascertain what everyone found yesterday and make a plan for the dig accordingly.”

“And the temple?” Boyle questioned, bouncing eagerly in a manner that Picard knew for a fact was not in line with Starfleet regulations.

“Anyone is welcome to go in and look, but for now I want to focus on the cave mouth and the rock passage. We’ll make our way into the temple proper in good time. I don’t want to miss anything here in undue haste.”

He knew Boyle and the rest found the announcement disappointing, but they took the order as gospel, and soon enough his team had rallied their reports and met with him in the shade of the cave to discuss the next steps. Some, like T’Dara, had the experience and the natural talent that allowed for a quick meeting. Others, like the young Hrow, required a good deal more coaching. Even so, all of his teammates so far seemed more than capable, and they were certainly motivated. Once all of the reports had been given and a tentative timetable adopted, Picard’s team went immediately to work, roping off places of interest and setting up space in their makeshift lab for artifact analysis and containment.

Picard himself had to exert quite a lot of self-control not to go back to the temple himself. Instead, he monitored the readings in the lab to determine that everyone’s tricorders were working properly and then, after wandering around the site to see how everyone was faring, offered to assist young Hrow with his excavation. The Caitian was a bit all thumbs.

By the time the suns were setting, his team was caked with dust and thoroughly exhausted. It was a relief when the temperatures fell in their typical dramatic drop, though Picard knew they’d want to get the fire roaring again as soon as possible to ward off a bone-deep chill. Boyle was the first to leave the site, but Picard could hardly fault him when it became clear his objective was to start heating up the field-ready meals for everyone.

“This will do for now, Mr. C’toah. Let’s retire to the cave with the others,” Picard offered, patting the young man’s shoulder lightly. The future cadet was desperate to prove himself, Picard could tell, but he didn’t want Hrow to run himself into the ground in his need to please. “This is looking much cleaner. You’ve done well, today. I encourage you to show Emzad your findings. Xe will be very interested in the small pieces of canvas, especially.”

“Thank you, doctor,” Hrow replied with a fangy smile, clearly blushing a little beneath his dark grey fur.

The team shuffled tiredly into the cave and broke without prompting into small groupings. T’Dara and Boyle worked together on dinner while Emzad and Hrow took over curtaining off a small section of the open space for the purposes of privacy so that everyone might have a quick sonic cleaning before eating. Picard gathered up everyone’s PADDs and began to move all of the day’s files into their collective database, skimming over the reports and making notes of the more interesting sections as he worked. Hrow and he had found several small bits of detritus including a battered metal offerings bowl and a bit of a faded painted canvas. Emzad’s continued exploration of a well-buried line of Ventanan invocation icons had been profitable. Xe had yet to completely unearth any of the statues, but so far xe had counted fifteen of the small metal offerings in the soft, grainy dirt—a remarkably high number of invocations for such a small patch of ground, perhaps the sands had shifted? Boyle’s work to clear away the base of the cave—seeking the tell-tale stone steps that were so common to Ventanan rock-temples of the period—was slow going, but Picard was confident that the man would find what he sought and thereby give them all a much clearer idea of the surrounding topography at the time of the temple’s construction. T’Dara had spent time analyzing what few scrapes of written text they had uncovered outside and just within the cave, so far. Her reports were mostly gibberish to Picard—full of notes about syllabic stresses and so on—but he believed she, too, was making great progress.

Once everyone was cleaned up, the team sat together around their cheery fire and conducted an informal report over their suppers. Picard was pleased at the amiable, trusting nature of the talks—even points of contention such as T’Dara’s too-logical dismissal of Tek Emzad’s emotionally driven conjecture about Hrow’s piece of canvas were handled politely between the conflicting members. Everyone was professional but not overly stuffy. Picard found himself feeling more relaxed than he had all day, laughing uproariously along with the rest—except T’Dara, whose eyes merely softened a little around the corners—as Boyle recounted a hilarious story from his days at Starfleet Academy.

“And so there we were, three fresh-faced cadets, asses over elbows—oh, pardon the expression—in the quad, and there comes old Boothby, red-faced and yelling to beat the band--.”

Time stopped. There was no other explanation for it. The members of his team sat, caught mid-motion. Even the fire was trapped, its once-flickering flames rendered utterly still, though Picard could still distantly register its heat. As soon as realization came to him, Picard leapt to his feet, wishing once more that one of them were properly armed.

“A phaser would be useless against the likes of me, anyway, Jean-Luc. And are you mortals always so violent? It’s been such a long time, but I thought I remembered you being a little more open-minded, as whole.”

“I thought I told you to stay out of my thoughts.”

“Oh, but that was _last_ time. Do you mean I have to stay out of them _all_ of the time? How tedious. How will I know what you’re thinking? Verbal communication is so limited, and don’t even get me started on the inherent miscommunications that come from your so-called ‘body language.’ Why, I can’t even interpret the expression on your face right now! Are you happy to see me?”

The Laugher appeared in a flash of light. He surveyed the frozen team members one by one and finally sat down next to T’Dara, prodding her frozen form a few inches to one side to make more room for his own long legs.

“I’m _annoyed_ ,” Picard ground out. ‘ _And a little alarmed,_ ’ he admitted, relieved when the Laugher didn’t so much as twitch at the thought. Well, at least he seemed a reasonably honorable type, so far. Or perhaps, like Picard himself, he simply relished a challenge.

“Why? You’ve been thinking about me all day. I just thought I’d make the first move, so to speak. I even waited until you were all finished stuffing your faces before showing up—it’s rude, isn’t it, to barge in on someone at dinner time?”

“Is there something you wanted, Laugher?” Picard sighed, resigning himself to a strange, baffling, and vaguely offensive conversation once more.

“No, I told you. I came here because you wanted to see me.”

“You’re mistaken.”

“ _You_ are lying to yourself, _mon docteur._ That’s just not healthy. Wait a minute. This isn’t some sort of grudge playing out, is it? Are you still angry with me for the conversation we had in the temple?”

Picard glanced around once more at his frozen peers and knew that there was no sense in resisting. The best thing to do would be to play the god’s game until he tired of it and returned everything to as it was before. “It would arrogant, at the very least, to hold a grudge against a god.”

“Ah, but you don’t believe I’m a god. So it’s only a _little_ arrogant. And ignorant, of course, since I do, in fact, know everything, and you know nothing, so when I tell you that you mortal types are all wrong about history, you really should listen.”

Picard’s anger got the best of him and he found himself on his feet, challenging the Laugher over the motionless fire. “If you are so concerned by the gaps in my knowledge, perhaps you should educate me! In what ways have we gone wrong?”

“I told you, Jean-Luc, you wouldn’t want to know.” Laugher snapped his fingers. In a flash of light, a hotdog on a stick appeared. The entity frowned at it a moment and then snapped again, trading the hotdog in for a neat line of large, white marshmallows. He turned the stick slowly in the flames.

“Try me.”

Laugher snorted, prodding lightly at a marshmallow before sticking it back in the fire to roast a little more. “Another time, perhaps. I didn’t come here to talk about your past.”

“So you _are_ here with some objective. All right. What is it?”

“I’ve been thinking about you and your team. I don’t mind you being here. In fact, I fully support your work if it helps my temple regain the respect and attention that it—and I—deserve.”

“But?” Picard pressed, watching with confusion as the Laugher snapped two graham crackers and a slab of something dark—ah, chocolate—from thin air.

“ _But_ , you could all stand to be far more interesting. It’s been a long handful of millennia. I’m _bored_. Therefore, I want to make a deal.”

Picard nodded. “I can’t promise to agree to it, but I’m listening.” So far, he’d only seen the entity perform small—if impossible—parlor tricks. Even so, that didn’t mean he couldn’t make the lives of Picard’s team a living hell, if he chose. It would be good to form some sort of alliance—whatever it took to make sure that the dig was a successful one.

“Good.” The Laugher paused a moment, stacking the chocolate on top of one of the crackers and then capturing a marshmallow between the other, pulling the whole sticky mess free from the metal stick. To Picard’s surprise, he held the dessert out. “Try it. S’mores aren’t exactly common in the current century; consider it a campfire delicacy.”

“Not entirely common in ancient Venta, either,” Picard replied, taking the s’more in the spirit it was offered. He wondered and worried, a little, about consuming something that had been made to appear out of nothing, but pushed the concerns aside for the sake of diplomacy.

“No. Well, I may be limited in where I am allowed to go, these days, but that doesn’t mean I can’t _see_ whatever—and whenever—I want.”

“I don’t understand,” Picard said. It wasn’t easy to admit it, but his curiosity outweighed his pride. The s’more was delicious, if cumbersome to eat. Laugher had snapped more crackers and chocolate from the air and was now making his own with twice as many marshmallows.

“No, you wouldn’t. It’s not easy to explain in your language, either. I can try, if it will make you more likely to accept my trade.”

“If you want me to accept your deal, you might start by telling me what it is you want.” Picard frowned at a gooey bit of chocolate and marshmallow that had dripped from the sandwich and was clinging resolutely to his palm. After a moment of hesitation, he licked it up.

“Mff’All in goo’ ‘ime,” the Laugher said, cramming a whole s’more in his mouth and talking around it. He swallowed thickly. “It’s a matter of captivity, you see—the s’mores thing. How familiar are you with my mythology?”

“Not very, I’m afraid. I brought a few files with me, but I only skimmed them. I didn’t think it would be necessary for the success of the dig.”

Laugher ‘tsked’ at him softly. “Shows what you know! All right, then. I’ll just give you the Reader’s Digest version--.”

“The what?”

“An overview. Don’t interrupt, it will just take even longer. Do you want another one of these?”

Picard shook his head. His tongue was thickly coated with the sugary taste enough as it was. Laugher shrugged and snapped everything he had conjured out of existence.

“The gods of Venta are not my people—not by what you would consider ‘blood relation,’ anyway. I’m… adopted, to borrow a nearly-applicable phrase. The Family took me in eons ago, though it took a lot of effort on my part to get them to do it. Even once I’d been brought into the fold, as it were, many of gods were suspicious of me. Most of the children of the Great Mother were concerned that I might curry too much favor and end up taking _their_ rightful places in the pantheon. I had too much power, you see, _a lot_ more power than most of _them_. And the more followers I amassed, the more paranoid the Family became. Finally, they decided to take drastic measures.” Laugher tugged at the high collar of his Ventanan-style tunic, bearing more of the brand that Picard had found so intriguing. “This is what keeps me grounded. It was woven into the essence of me many thousands of years ago. I can’t remove it—believe me, I’ve tried.”

“What does it do, exactly?”

“I suppose the simplest way to explain it would be to say that it _binds_ me. Are you familiar with your _own_ mythology? Specifically the story of Prometheus.”

“I do know that one, yes. Prometheus brought fire—,” Picard flicked a hand toward the bright flames between them, “--to humanity, going against the will of the gods. To punish him, his fellow gods chained him to a rock for all eternity. A bird came each day and ate his liver. A very gruesome tale.”

“Yes. Well, this marking serves as my chains. This temple is my rock.”

“And your bird?”

The Laugher smiled. It was not a nice smile at all. “Oh, _that_ went away a long time ago.”

“So, you can’t leave this place?”

“Any physical manifestation is tied to this temple, yes. I can’t travel past these caves.”

“Before, you said that you could still ‘see.’”

“You have something in your century, don’t you—holovids?”

“Yes. They are used as a form of entertainment, primarily. The Human race has had a similar technology for much of its history, as far back as the early 1900s. I prefer a holodeck, myself.”

“I can’t be omnipresent, anymore, but my omniscience is as strong as ever. I’ve had a lot of time on my hands and no one to talk to.” Laugher shrugged, “It’s amazing what you can pick up just by keeping an eye on the entirety of time and space for a while. I _am_ glad your little team showed up when you did, though. Everything was starting to turn into reruns. If you’ve seen one giant space battle, Jean-Luc, you’ve seen them all.”

“I think I understand,” Picard said, nodding. He actually found himself feeling rather badly for the entity. He couldn’t imagine it, being trapped in a buried temple with only oneself for company. Even with access to all of history of the cosmos to view—and wouldn’t _that_ be something!—he could see how it would quickly become lonely. “What is the deal you want to make?”

“Has anyone ever told you that you have a remarkably one-track mind?”

“Laugher, please.”

“You needn’t call me that, you know. It’s not really my name.”

“Oh? Then what should I call you?”

The Laugher’s grin was wide, showing off his prominent front teeth. The god waved a hand at his neck, turning his head just so to reveal the mark. “Why, Q, of course.”

\--

Boyle’s skepticism was clear. Picard didn’t blame him at all, but he did hope that the Starfleet officer’s training would trump his suspicions—if ever Picard needed to have his orders followed blindly, it was now.

“You really think it’s necessary? Not to be difficult, it’s just that I thought you were satisfied with the team as-is, sir? Kwin is doing a great job of acting as a cultural expert. Are we removing her from the dig?”

“Not at all, Mr. Boyle! In fact, I hope that Kwin might be able to contribute even more in the future.”

“Then why--?”

“Adrian, I just think he’s a good choice. I’ve already spoken to the Institute, and they are more than willing to fund another expert for this project. We’re making real strides, here. We can do even more with some more help.”

“What did you say his name is again?”

Picard and the Laugher had argued over that exact point for far longer than seemed necessary. Now that he was pressed for a response, however, Picard was glad at the time that they’d expended. The identity they had built together for the new “cultural expert” was iron-clad, if Picard did say so himself. Of course, the Laugher’s ability to transform the lie into truth—or as close to the truth as forged records could be—had also helped. “Quincy. Doctor Adam Quincy. He goes by ‘Q.’”

“Foremost scholar of Ventanan mythology outside of Venta, you said, but I’ve never heard of him,” Boyle replied, frowning down at his PADD, “though I don’t see how I missed all of these publications. This book of his, it won the Daystrom Award six years ago. And it seems extremely thorough. We should have picked up copies for the dig.”

“Ah, well,” Picard replied, holding up his own PADD to display the cover of _In the Twilight Edge_ , “I did, in fact, pick up a copy for myself before we arrive. I would be happy to share it with the rest of the team if you believe they would be similarly interested.”

“Are you kidding? Absolutely, Doctor. And we’ve really captured the interest of this guy? He’s like some kind of minor celebrity in this niche field, you know. I’m impressed.”

Picard cleared his throat. “He was eager to be a part of the action.” And that, at least, wasn’t a lie at all.

\--

The most difficult part, really, was allowing “Doctor Quincy” to arrive on site without garnering any suspicion. Though Q’s powers could affect almost anything inside the bounds of caves—including the files on their PADDs, such as the fake book and Adam Quincy’s personal records—he was unable to alter reality past a certain radius around the temple cave. He had demonstrated the pull of his so-called chain for Picard one evening, the rest of the team frozen in their sleep. Even days later, Picard couldn’t shake off the crawling sensation of terror that the entity’s broken screaming had inspired. So, they couldn’t make it seem as if Q had come in from the outside via Kwin’s car. Picard didn’t feel comfortable bringing Kwin in on their secret, and he didn’t wish to encourage her to lie, either.

So, he had to “arrive” some other way. Anticipation had Picard certain that he wouldn’t fall asleep that night, but he proved mistaken when a loud BANG startled him from a dreamless sleep. The rest of the team startled, as well. Boyle even jumped to his feet, his hand going to for a phaser that wasn’t there. “What was that?”

“I’m not--,” Picard began, another lie, but he was interrupted by a series of more loud, banging noises. An old engine, he realized, even as he pulled on his robe and lead his team out into the moon-bright sands.

Q was waiting for them just a few feet outside the cave mouth—mere inches from the end of his tolerance, Picard noted with a hidden wince. Q leaned forward, killing the engines of the…motorcycle? The entity was wearing the male, Human-like form that Picard had come to know so well.

_‘What if they recognize you? The statue in the temple is identical!’_

_‘Oh, please, Jean-Luc. If there is one thing I know about mortals, it’s that they are always eager to accept the easiest answer. We’ll pass it off as a strange coincidence. It’ll be easy, you’ll see.’_

“What _is_ that thing?” Boyle asked, brushing past Picard to prod at the machine in question. Q smiled down at the man as the officer kneeled next to the vehicle, running tentative hands near its shiny black chassis.

“Don’t get too close to the engines,” Q advised, “this is old tech—fewer safety measures. If it were running, those belts would smash your fingers into bits faster than you could say ‘oh, ow.’”

“She’s a beauty,” Boyle said, lovingly. Picard hadn’t taken him for a man much interested in transport vehicles, but the other members of the team—even T’Dara—seemed quite intrigued by the item.

“What does it use for fuel?” Emzad asked a few minutes later, taking xir turn at sitting in the padded pleather seat.

“In the old days, petrol—a kind of fossil fuel. It’s been modified several time since then, of course. These days, I have it running on a modified warp system.”

“Isn’t that dangerous?” Hrow questioned, his furry hands startling away from where they’d been prodding experimentally at the exposed engines. “What about the potential for radiation overflow?”

Q waved a hand, dismissive. “It’s been taken into account.”

Picard hoped that was true. Q might be an immortal entity, perfectly capable of surviving exposure to intense radiation, but the rest of his team was not.

“Well, Dr. Quincy. You certainly know how to make an entrance,” Picard drawled, as they’d planned. “We do have transport available to us. You may recall my mentioning our Ventanan guide, Kwin?”

“Oh, yes, yes. But I would have had to wait until after the next sunset, right? I couldn’t possibly. What was I expected to do, kick my keels around that depressing little hovel they call a capital? I think not.”

Everyone fell silent at that, staring at Q and then, sidelong, at each other. Picard felt a rush of pride for their intolerance of the slight against the Ventanan natives. He shot Q a cool look of his own, though this, too, was part of the plan.

_‘My team won’t take well to that sort of behavior.’_

_‘That’s perfectly fine. We don’t want them asking too many probing questions about Quincy, do we? They won’t bother if they don’t like me.’_

_‘I think you just want an excuse to be as rude and abrasive as possible.’_

_‘Well, there is that.’_

“Perhaps you’d like to come inside? We were just _sleeping_ ,” Picard said, placing a definite stress on the final word.

Q shrugged, apparently not interested in apologizing for disturbing everyone’s rest for his own selfish ends. Picard caught several dark looks as the team trooped back into their makeshift camp. Well, Q was certainly a master at getting on everyone’s bad side—they certainly wouldn’t be trying to learn more about Dr. Adam Quincy anytime soon. Picard just hoped that Q’s contributions to the progress of the dig would be worth the social upheaval in his once tight-knit team’s dynamics.

Later, as Q and Emzad engaged in a vicious argument over whose sleeping bag was where first—Emzad was in the right, of course—Picard sighed, barely restraining himself from praying to whatever gods might be listening for strength.

\--

“Your new Doc is a bit _whaaza_ , Doc,” Kwin announced a few days later as she dropped an armful of Ventanan data-cards on the lab table.

Picard looked up from the tricorder he’d been studying and allowed his raised eyebrows to speak for him.

“ _Whaaza_. It’s…someone who doesn’t act like they are supposed to. Big taboo breaker.”

Picard snorted softly. That was an understatement, considering that the Ventanan woman was speaking of _the_ foremost taboo-breaker in her own culture’s theology. “He is a bit of a handful, yes.”

Now it was Kwin’s turn to express surprise at a poorly-translated phrase. “I take it that’s not meant to be understood literally.”

Picard, to his own surprise, blushed. “Ah, no. It just means that he’s difficult to work with.”

“Now _that’s_ the truth. Do you know that I think he nearly made your Vulcan scholar cry, earlier? Never seen anything like that.”

Picard resisted the urge to grind his thumbs into his temples to ward off the tension headache he’d been experiencing practically since the first moment “Doctor Quincy” had arrived. He had greatly misjudged just how contrary the entity could be.

_‘You need to be a team player!’_

_‘Teamwork?_ Moi? _I_ can’t _work well with others. It’s impossible to work in a group when you’re omnipotent!”_

“I’ll talk to him,” Picard promised.

Kwin’s eyes all narrowed at once. “Please do. Going to smack him in the face if he doesn’t lay off.”

“I appreciate your restraint so far.”

“ _Astiaayta,_ Picard.”

“I’m sorry?”

“I think the closest Standard translation would be ‘damn straight,’” Q drawled, causing Picard to startle and Kwin to roll her outer eyes before stomping out of the cave and leaving them alone.

“What do you want, Q?”

“So tetchy! Tell me, are all mortals so tense, or is it just all of the ones here?”

“You’re upsetting them all. Can’t you be more civil?”

“Civil? Why, Jean-Luc, I’m surprised at you. I’m on my best behavior!”

“Your best isn’t good enough. Boyle is threatening to quit even earlier than he already had planned. Hrow’s confidence is shattered; I won’t be able to give him the recommendation he deserves, at this rate. Tek Emzad is exhausted from shielding xirself from everyone’s angry thoughts at every moment. And, to top it all off, Kwin just informed me that you made T’Dara, _a Vulcan_ , cry!”

Q sniffed. “I told you that mortals can’t accept the truth of their history. Vulcans, as it turns out, are no exception.”

“What did you tell her?”

“Oh, nothing important. Just a little something about that Surak fellow they’re always going on and on about.”

“Q--.”

“I know, Jean-Luc. I know. I’ll play more nicely, if that’s what you want.”

Picard doubted very much that the entity would really keep his word, but there was very little he could do about the situation, otherwise. It wasn’t like he could send the man home. He was already there, and, worst of all, he _needed_ him. In just a few days, Q’s firsthand knowledge of the ancient Ventanan culture and his own mythology had had a profound and positive impact on their work. To lose such a resource—well, even his long-suffering teammates could recognize the off-putting man’s brilliance. In the end, Picard just hoped that they would continue to feel that his assistance was worth the pain of his personality.

\--

Things came to a—perhaps predictable—head during the sunlit hours a few days later. Picard had been deep in discussion with T’Dara about the best way to go about removing a large stone tablet—covered in the ancient Ventanan text—from the sand without causing any damage. Emzad and Hrow were inside the caves, carefully examining the stretches of painted canvas they had excavated together to determine the age of the works. Q and Boyle were together, completing the work Boyle had begun in digging up the stone steps and mosaic-tiled area around the cave mouth. The two men had been arguing, low but heated, for most of the morning. The source of their ire was unknown to Picard, but he had been confident that whatever it was, they could work it out amongst themselves. His assessment proved incorrect, however, as the volume of their argument steadily increased.

Picard was just getting to his feet to cross the sands and calm the shouting when Boyle abruptly lashed out, punching Q with immense force in the jaw. The entity fell backward…right over the invisible line that marked the tail end of his metaphorical leash. Boyle stumbled back in shock as the entity started to writhe, screaming, in the sand. The rest of the team seemed frozen, staring on in terror, Emzad and Hrow standing at the threshold of the cave mouth while T’Dara hovered, still and wide-eyed near Picard’s side. Picard shouted Q’s name, and that seemed to break through Boyle’s shock. The Starfleet officer bolted forward, grabbing Q roughly under the arms and pulling him upright, sitting him down on one of the wide, worn steps.

Q’s reaction—like an seizure, Picard thought, dazedly—eased off slowly, leaving him still twitchy and panting hard for breath. _‘Does he even need to breathe at all?’_ Picard wondered as he broke his own paralysis and ran toward the two men. _‘What must it be like, to have so much power and resilience, only to be brought down by a literal line in the sand?’_

“Move aside,” Picard ordered Boyle shortly, gripping Q’s forearms to keep him upright as Boyle moved away. “Q. Q, can you hear me?”

Q’s face was a mess. Boyle had broken his nose, and it was quite bloody. His jaw was going to swell and bruise, Picard could see that clearly already. Still, he had a suspicion that such damage was superficial for the god. He was much more worried about the effects of yanking too far on his so-called chains. Q’s eyes were slow to track as he met Picard’s own gaze. “I’ve never liked pain.”

Picard’s tight hold on Q relaxed just a little in relief. “Not many do. Are you all right?”

“I’ll need a moment. Your pets are staring.”

Picard frowned, glancing over his shoulder reflexively. His team was, indeed, all clustered rather close behind him, each face betraying some level of concern. Even Boyle, who also harbored a clear sense of guilt. He offered them reassuring smiles. It was good to know that, no matter how much they disliked Q personally, they were still concerned about his well-being. He could stop worrying that someone might try to kill him in the night.

“It’s all right, everyone. Please return to your work. We’ll have a meeting once I’ve seen to Dr. Quincy’s injuries. Boyle, do you have the medical kit?”

“Yes, sir,” Boyle said, stiffly, and then he was off like a shot to retrieve said box.

“You’ll have to let me heal things the mortal way,” Picard said softly.

“Yes, I figured that out for myself, thanks.”

“Why did--?”

“Why does anyone do anything, Picard? It doesn’t matter. Just let it go.”

“I’ll have to reprimand--.”

“Don’t. It doesn’t matter. What’s an odd punch between friends?”

“You can’t possibly--.”

“Here it is, sir,” Boyle broke in, pushing the white container into Picard’s hands. Picard thanked him and not-so-subtly directed him to go and assist Hrow and Mx. Emzad in the lab.

“You’re a capable leader,” Q remarked as he watched Picard set out the necessary tools. “They really listen to you.”

“I wouldn’t think you’d care much about that kind of thing.”

“Not for myself, no—I don’t care for orders. Still, if I was going to follow anyone, Jean-Luc, it’d be someone like you.”

Picard blinked, pausing mid-application of the dermal regenerator. “Thank you.”

Q winces and whined during the entire process, but by the time the treatment was done, he looked more or less whole again, if a bit puffy around the jawline, and, of course, his tunic was a mess. “How do mortals get bloodstains out?” Q wondered aloud softly.

Picard smiled. “I think you can work a little if your usual magic. Just don’t let them see.”

“Oh, good. I like this tunic. It’s my color,” Q replied, clearly genuinely relieved.

\--

Later that evening, Picard walked into the temple. He found the space much less menacing now that he was so familiar with the god for whom it had been built. True, the lines were still too severe, and the blank walls showed far too many flickering shadows, but it was quiet, and that was what mattered.

Predictably, it didn’t stay that way for long.

“You know, back in my day, this place was never empty. On my feast days, it was madness. You couldn’t so much as spit without hitting a hundred Ventanans or more. Not that I ever would spit on them, of course.”

“Of course,” Picard replied, doubtfully. He had sat down on the mosaic, just in front of the battered altar. He had come here to be alone, but somehow the presence of Q in this place was not an intrusion. If anything, he felt _more_ at peace, now, even as Q sat down right next to them, their shoulders and thighs close enough to brush. Picard had always considered his personal space sacred, but he didn’t mind. “Why did you want to join my team, Q?”

“I told you. I was bored.”

“You also told me your opinion of our work. You think we’re all wrong, that we’re basing our beliefs about the ancient past on faulty information and therefore wasting our time. And yet, here you are, moving the dirt right along with us. You can’t expect me to believe that this is fun for you.”

“Frankly, Jean-Luc, without being allowed to listen to your thoughts, I don’t know _what_ to expect from you.”

“The others, are you reading their thoughts?”

“Only the loudest ones. Do you want to know what Boyle was thinking when he punched me?”

“I shouldn’t encourage you, but, yes, actually, I do.”

Q smiled wryly, staring up at the ceiling—it had been built to retain a large portion of the cave’s natural structure, high and domed and just as blank as the walls. “He was thinking that he couldn’t understand why you liked me so much.”

Picard startled a little, glancing over at the entity. “Do I like you?” he questioned, before he could stop himself.

Q laughed. “That was my reaction, too. After the ‘oh my me, that _hurt_ ,’ of course.”

A silence feel between them, comfortable if pensive.

“I don’t _dislike_ you,” Picard said, certain of that much.

“Yes. I don’t dislike you, either,” Q agreed, warmly. “In fact, I want to thank you.”

“Oh?”

“Yes. The deal we made is far more in my favor than yours, I’m sure. I know that I’ve been a disruption, and I know your team would like nothing more than to get rid of me. Even so, you were kind to give me the chance to…do what I’ve been doing. The past few days have been some of the most pleasant that I’ve had in a very long time.”

“You make it sound like it’s over,” Picard replied, slowly. He wasn’t sure if he was hopeful or disappointed.

“I think I’ve overstayed my welcome. I don’t want anyone else to get punched in the face.”

“Boyle--.”

“Was just doing what he felt was right in the moment. I know. But I should step away, now. Consider your end of the deal upheld. A god has no place among mortals. Especially not a god like me.”

“You’ve been so helpful to us. We need you.”

“I’ll be happy to answer whatever questions you might have for me. I’ll still be here, after all, stuck in this temple. I think Dr. Quincy has run his course, that’s all. It’s time for him to return to his high-profile life as the foremost expert in Ventanan nonsense.”

“He really is a terrible blowhard, that man,” Picard said, amused.

“Isn’t he? Devilishly handsome, though.”

“He’s not bad,” Picard agreed. Dimly he realized that their shoulders were no longer simply brushing. They were sitting very close, now, supporting each other’s weight. The entity was warmer than Human standard, Picard thought, though in honesty he wasn’t sure if that were true or simply a trick of his own mind. No sooner had he registered the warmth than he found himself bereft of it, sitting—seemingly alone—before the broken altar of an equally broken god.

\--

The next morning, the team awoke just before the sunlit hours to find Dr. Adam Quincy and his refurbished motor-vehicle gone. No one seemed very put out by that turn of events, though Boyle did draw Picard aside before breakfast.

“Did he speak to you first, at least?”

“Yes. I knew this might happen. It’s all right; the work can continue on without him. He was kind enough to leave many of his personal notes and a contact number behind.”

“I’m sorry, Doctor Picard. I shouldn’t have let my anger get the better of me. If there’s one thing Starfleet beats into you from day one it’s that violence shouldn’t be the first choice.”

“’Beats into you’ might not have been the best phrasing,” Picard replied, dryly. Q’s pervasive, if quirky, sense of humor was starting to affect him.

“Ha, no. But I am--.”

“I know you’re sorry, Adrian. I don’t think I’m the one you should apologize to. However, since the man in question is no longer here, I’ll accept the apology in the spirit it is intended. I must ask you, what did he say to make you so angry?”

Boyle looked sheepish. “That’s just the thing. It was a silly comment to get so worked up about. I think it was just the proverbial straw.”

“Adrian…”

Boyle sighed. “He was questioning your decisions, sir. He said we were wasting our time on the stairs and the artifacts. He wanted to work on the altar.”

“Not an entirely unreasonable perspective.”

“It was really more the _way_ he said it. And he just…he wanted us to _fix_ the altar.”

“Fix it?”

“Yes, sir. The whole temple, actually. That’s what we’d been arguing about all morning. He was going on and on about how useless it was to properly excavate the area and preserve the pieces. For an expert on history and a supposedly renowned archaeologist, his perspective on the field is _grossly_ misinformed.”

Picard smirked slightly. “Yes. I felt that way, too, at first. But you’re sure he wanted to restore the temple?”

“Strange, isn’t it?”

 _‘Not so strange, no,’_ Picard thought, feeling another pang of sympathy for his unlikely friend. “That’s all I needed to know, thank you. Let’s get back to work.”

\--

The loss of Adam Quincy was a boon for their morale. It also dealt a devastating blow to their productivity. Slowly, each team member readjusted their workflows. Questions about Laugher and ancient Ventanan practices were once again directed toward Kwin, who was only available sporadically and, more often than not, lacked the answers they desired.

Picard took full advantage of the notes that ‘Quincy’ had left behind, and for everything else, he made discreet trips into the temple to commune with the god.

“You’re joking.”

“Not all, Jean-Luc. Look, you can cross-reference it with—what was the name?—ah, yes, the knowledgeable Scholar Kwuarippa. She was a genius, you know. Her work on the Thrice-Married Queen is some of the more accurate out there. She’s still _completely_ off the mark, of course, but closer than anyone else.”

“I’ve heard of her. Kwin is fond of that particular bit of academic gossip. Kwuarippa was discredited twenty years ago. She died in poverty; her reputation never recovered from her wild claims.”

Q grinned, one of his more feral expressions. “The truth is a dangerous business, Picard. I promise you, she was on the right track. The answers you want are there.”

Picard sighed, pulling up the needed articles from the Ventanan governmental database. “It won’t be easy to convince my team about this. And Kwin is certain to laugh us right off the dig site.”

Q’s hand on his forearm was warm and friendly, giving him a gentle squeeze of—what, sympathy? “Remember, Johnny,” the god said, dripping sarcasm, “you are _dedicated_ to the truth, above all else.”

Picard sighed and made a few quick notations on his PAAD. “I’ll suggest it. Thank you.”

\--

_The Laugher’s form is exceptionally malleable—this is not surprising considering the god’s place as a trickster among the Ventanan pantheon. Deities under the trickster archetype often use shapeshifting and misdirection as a means to an end or for their own entertainment. Laugher is no exception. The god has countless forms that appear in the art and writings of the Ventanan people, but there are four forms that appear most often in the sacred texts. These forms include a male and female-coded Ventanan form, a chimera-like figure comprised of animals native to the desert island of the commonly titled ‘Married Monarchy’, and a strange, abstract body that—it is believed—is the god’s truest form._

_In studying the mythology of Laugher, it becomes clear that each of these four main aspects seems to serve a particular purpose. The male Ventanan figure is used when the Laugher is performing acts similar to that of Kuyata the Warrior—a famous, semi-mortal folk hero akin to the Klingon’s Kahless or the Human stories of Robin Hood. The abstract form is used in stories of the Laugher’s past before Venta, or when the god is acting a manner that is exceptionally unpleasant to the Great Family. The chimera form is utilized in story-lessons—the Laugher often finds himself suffering backlash from his own tricks while in this aspect. Finally, the female Ventanan form appears in tales meant to satirize politics as, for much of its existence, the primary monarchies on the planet of Venta have been matriarchal. It should also be noted that this female aspect is often used by Laugher in stories that revolve around Ventanan rituals related to sex. -- Dr. A. Q., “In the Twilight Edge: A Basic Overview of the Laughing God of Venta”_

_\--_

“When this island was primarily marshland, the people participated in a lot of festivals involving mud.”

Picard frowned at his PADD, confused by the apparent non sequitur. “Is that so?”

“There is a goddess in the Family whose sole purpose was once to maintain the marshes. I wonder what became of her, sometimes, now that her identity has been stripped away. It would have happened so slowly. She must have known it was coming—she must have seen the end. Do you think she was in denial, or did she embrace it?”

Picard set his PADD down against his knees, the data analysis momentarily forgotten. “You mean to say she…died?”

“In a sense. The gods of Venta are very reliant on belief. Those who lose their relevance disappear.”

“Is that…could that happen to you, as well?”

Q’s smile was bitter. “No. I’m not like them. I told you.”

“You’ve told me many things,” Picard agreed. “I don’t understand most of them, however.”

“It’s all right. I’ll keep telling you things until you do.”

The warm feeling in Picard’s chest was unexpected but not unwelcome. In truth, he’d been feeling that odd, comfortable sensation quite often around the entity, especially since the Adam Quincy incident. Oh, it was true, Q could be _infuriating_ and _arrogant_ and _impossible_ , but he could be thoughtful, considerate, and approachable, too, when the mood struck. It had become a habit to meet in the temple after the rest of the team had gone on to sleep. Picard would work for a few hours, Q would watch him work, and every now and again, they’d talk about whatever they wished.

“Do you miss the marshes?”

“I miss being able to leave the caves,” Q reminded, sighing. “But, yes. I miss the marshes. When I was first chained here, I used to stand at the mouth of the cave and watch the sheer _life_ of the marsh. There used to be so many birds, so many fish. The foliage was remarkable, especially in the warmest months. I wish you could have seen the flowers, Picard. There was a particular bush—a _yippa_ plant—with enormous flowers. The petals were…well. They were quite nice to look at. And now there’s nothing but sand. It was torture, watching the marshes slowly dry up.”

Picard frowned at the entity’s sad, wistful expression, and took it upon himself to alter the course of the discussion. “What were the mud festivals like?”

To Picard’s surprise, Q’s expression shifted into one that he’d never seen, before. Once Picard placed that specific curl of the lip and glint in the eye, he was even more astonished. He’d never seen the god look so…

“The majority of festivals to the marshland goddess were celebrations for the harvest. The Ventanan used to hunt and forage from the swamps, back then. And there was nothing more integral to a healthy, bounteous harvest than a rite of _sex_.”

Picard couldn’t keep himself from blushing. _‘Don’t be so foolish,’_ he reprimanded himself firmly. _‘You’re a grown man, and you are quite familiar with the relation of sex to prosperity in most civilized cultures!’_ The nearly-extinct culture of the Xiffinas on Xitra VI, for example, had enjoyed a multitude of very…unique…approaches toward devotionals to their fertility goddesses. Picard had spent two very memorable summers on a dig excavating hundreds of explicit statues from the planet’s clay-rich soils. So why, then, was the thought of the ancient Ventanan’s muddy rituals so alluring?

 _‘That isn’t it,’_ he admitted to himself, _‘It’s that he’s here, so close, with that look in his eye._ Merde _, what am I thinking?’_ Picard cast a sidelong glance at Q certain that now, of all times, would be the moment when the god broke his promise to not read Picard’s thoughts. Q seemed oblivious, however, and Picard relaxed a little. “Ah, I see,” he managed aloud, proud of his level tone, despite the blush.

Q’s smile was bright and just on the wrong side of predatory. Picard swallowed and fought the urge to run for it. He was no coward, after all. Besides, Q was just winding him up, as he so often did. He had learned quickly that it was best to play along and, if possible, beat the entity at his own game.

All of Picard’s resolve melted away, however, when the god stepped forward, his familiar aspect shimmering in the glow of the flood lights, which dimmed marginally at the movement. Picard was vaguely surprised that the god hadn’t snapped or produced his usual blinding flash of light. Instead, his form had simply wavered a little—like a mirage on the horizon—and shifted seamlessly from one form—tall, dark-haired, often smirking—to another—lithe, dappled, still smirking. Picard had seen many beautiful Ventanan’s in his time on the island. Kwin, for example, was a very pretty young woman, and the male porter who had first helped them check in all of their equipment had had especially beautiful eyes. They could not quite compare to the figure before him now. She was tall for a Ventanan. Her eyes were a striking gradient from stone gray to the deep purple-blue of some galaxies. Her ears—long and cervine as was typical of her race—bore many of the decorative metal loops that had been popular among the ancient monarchy. She wore a soft, gauzy toga that left her dappled shoulders bare and moved restlessly around her bare feet as she walked gracefully toward him. She smiled, and her moon-white teeth were just long enough in the front to give her a most charming overbite. It was the overbite that eased the tight feeling in Picard’s chest, transforming her from striking, untouchable goddess to approachable friend once more. The brand was less obvious in this form, the dark ‘Q’ lost in the dark lushness of the Ventanan’s skin tone.

“Q?” Picard hazard, unable to hide the way his voice had risen in pitch. “What are you doing?”

“I think the usual colloquialism is ‘slipping into something more comfortable,” Q replied, and her voice was also higher, now, and made rough with a promise of something that Picard found impossible to believe.

“This is a strange sort of joke,” Picard accused, frowning even as the Ventanan goddess crouched at his side. She didn’t touch him, which Picard appreciated, but he could feel the heat from her body, nonetheless.

“It’s not a joke,” Q replied, and that usual petulance slipped into her tone, “I don’t understand you. Have I read you wrong? Aren’t you interested? I’ve watched you. You like females.”

“I do,” Picard admitted, after a moment of silence in which he closed his eyes and took a deep breath. “I…Q, I don’t know what you hope to achieve by doing this.”

“It’s been a long time since those muddy rituals, Picard,” Q replied, and her voice was very close, now. Picard was reminded, viscerally, of their first meeting, Q’s warm hands on his shoulders, warm breath sliding against his ear.

“You want this, truly?” Picard questioned, and he forced himself to open his eyes. The entity’s galaxy-gradient eyes stared earnestly back at him.

“Yes, I do. It’ll be fun. I like fun. I always have. Do you want this? Do you want someone else? I can be someone else.”

Picard frowned a little at that. “I…I’ve never…with a Ventanan, before.”

Q’s answering smile was almost blinding in its excitement. “Oh, you’ll _like_ it,” she promised, bouncing a little on her heels. It was such a _Q_ gesture that all doubt left Picard in a rush. It didn’t matter that she looked so changed. Male, female, or non-binary; Human, Ventanan, or something else entirely, Q was always going to be this way, complicated and full of surprises. Picard wasn’t all that shocked to realize that he did, indeed, want this experience with Q—the aspect the god donned for the occasion didn’t really matter.

“I like your other form, too,” Picard said softly as he reached forward, tentatively brushing his fingertips over the brand on Q’s neck. She gave a full-bodied shudder and a soft, rumbling moan that made Picard’s mechanical heart work overtime.

“Really?” she whispered, four eyes blinking rapidly in Ventanan surprise. “I thought…well, it’s male.”

“I don’t mind,” Picard assured. “You—he?—is familiar.”

“Oh. Do you want--?”

“No. No, this is fine. This time.”

“ _This_ time?” Q replied, and if she blinked her eyes any faster, they might very well fall out—figuratively, of course.

Picard’s fingers stilled. “If you want that, of course. I understand if this is just…” What, a one-night stand? A whim, acted on once? A joke, in fact, though not meant as maliciously as he’d first suspected?

In answer, she kissed him, just a soft brush of lips. Picard was surprised at how pleasant those lips felt, though they were so different than what he was used to—he had had only a few intimate relationships in his past, always so focused on his career, and most of those had been with Humans.

“Yes. This time. Next time. Whatever you want,” Q breathed, smiling against his mouth as she kissed him again.

“I don’t know where the Ventanan…I don’t--,” Picard said awkwardly as Q’s fingers tugged lightly at the hem of his tunic, pulling it free of his trousers.

“It’s all right. I know what I’m doing. I’ll walk you through it. Just…is this okay?”

“Yes,” Picard replied, groaning softly as her hands skimmed under his shirt. She had a sure, warm touch, and her dark skin felt remarkably silken against his own. Soon, she shimmed the shirt up over his head. He laughed when she paused to fold it neatly before setting it aside. She looked mildly affronted at his amusement, at first, but then smiled, leaning in for another kiss.

Picard held the unfamiliar body close as they kissed, pressing his hands up against her back. He could feel her spine—more flexible than a Human’s, he recalled from his early xeno-anatomy lessons at the Academy. The thought spun out, and soon he found himself falling still, paralyzed by the strangeness of it all.

Q caught on quickly and pulled back, all four eyes skimming rapidly over his expression. Her own expression fell a little. “You’ve changed your mind?”

Picard grimaced. “I’m sorry, Q. It’s just…this is all very new to me.”

“Would you prefer another body? I can do a Human female, too. Look.”

Before Picard’s eyes, the Ventanan figure wavered like a mirage once more, this time melting into the aspect of a shorter, softer looking Human female. She had dark skin and eyes similar to the color of the more familiar male form Q so often wore. Her hair was short, curly and black. The slightly bucked teeth remained, and her smile was sheepish but still familiar, even without the arrogant curl. She wore the same dress as before, and in this form it accentuated her full breasts as well as her bared shoulders.

“She—you—are lovely, but that’s not--,” he sighed, a little lost for words.

“It’s too strange for you, isn’t it?” she sighed. Her form flickered, and Picard was made momentarily dizzy as the figure before him cycled through a multitude of faces and forms. It seemed more reflexive than anything, as if Q had lost control of whatever it was they used to formulate their appearance. Finally, the flickering eased and the familiar dark-haired man smirked at him, dark eyes softer than usual.

“I hadn’t expected this. It’s a lot to process so suddenly.”

Q sat back. He was wearing his usual attire for this form, nothing revealing or suggestive about the high-collared tunic and dark-colored trousers. “It’s not just the sex. You’ve only just started to understand what I am.”

“Yes, I think so.”

“Are you afraid?” Q reached over to the side and grabbed up Picard’s carefully folded shirt, handing it back to him.

Picard pulled the soft, well-worn tunic over his head and tucked it slowly into his trousers, stalling for time while he thought the question over. “I think that I should be, sometimes. But no. I’m not afraid of you, Q.”

Q’s expression was wide open and intensely venerable. Then the moment passed, and the old arrogance reasserted itself, distant and aloof. “Not very smart of you, really, but I suppose in time you’ll learn better.”

“I’m sure,” Picard replied, dryly. He picked up his PADD again.

“Are we still friends?” Q questioned a while later. He stared up at the temple ceiling again, steadfastly avoiding Picard’s eyes.

“We’re still friends,” Picard agreed.

“So, what’s next?” Q asked the ceiling, tone casual.

“I don’t really know. What I do know is, things will be different.”

Q smiled a little and leaned to the side, bumping Picard’s shoulder with his own. “I’m sure.”

\--

_[…] Laugher looked upon the scene and laughed heartily, even while the children cried._

_“Please, help us! We’re stuck in this mud!”_

_“What did your mother tell you before you left your home this morning?” Laugher replied, floating above them in the air._

_“Stay on the path!” the children cried back. “Please, please help us, before we sink even more!”_

_“If you’d stayed on the path, you wouldn’t be here now. Mindful children stay out of the mud of the marshes,” Laugher said, and he disappeared in a flash of light while the children sunk into the thick, black mud inch by inch. – An Old Story-Lesson_

\--

Picard shared a smile with Boyle as they started to collect the pieces for transport. After three Venta-standard months, Boyle’s time on the project was drawing to its premature close, and while Picard would miss his professional assistance and personal friendship, he knew that he couldn’t possibly convince the man to stay. He tried anyway, of course.

“I’m sorry, sir,” Boyle said, giving Picard one last handshake, “my ship needs me. This has been a great experience, and I wouldn’t have missed it for the world. Even so…”

“You miss the stars.”

“I do at that.”

Picard glanced over at Kwin. “Everything ready?”

“All ready, boss. The car is as full as she can get.”

“Don’t worry, doctor, I’ll make sure that it all gets to the Daystrom Institute safe and sound,” Boyle assured, grinning again. They’d had quite a few impressive finds during the man’s time here, with many more expected now that they were planning to move into the temple itself. Picard had already offered Boyle the opportunity to co-author a paper on a few of the artifacts, and the officer had accepted immediately.

“I hope you won’t mind if I call on you for any future projects.”

“Not at all!” Boyle assured, and he everyone on the team another heart-felt farewell before hopping into the vehicle with Kwin. Picard stood in the cave mouth and watched the car go until long after it was nothing but a tiny pinprick on the horizon. Even then, he stood a long time, staring up at the sky through the filter of the night-eye lenses.

“Well!” he finally said, turning to smile at his remaining crew as they tucked into their dinner. “Time waits for no man nor no departing Boyle. Let’s compare our notes for the evening, shall we?”

As he stepped into the shadow of the cave mouth, something sharp stung at his neck—a bug bite? He just had time to raise his hand toward the pain as the world shifted and went suddenly black.

\--

Picard awoke to utter darkness and felt a moment of disorientation. It was never fully dark in their camp. The moon was always blindingly bright, so much so that Hrow—possessing the most sensitive eyes of the group—wore his night-eyes to bed. To wake up in a darkness this complete could only mean trouble. Picard opened and closed his eyes a few times, but nothing changed. His body felt strange, his ankles and wrists held at awkward angles. Something coarse covered his eyes, blocking his sight.

Internal alarms ringing, the man took a moment to listen to his surroundings, but nothing seemed amiss. He could hear soft, steady breathing, but that was to be expected if he were, in fact, still at the camp site. Slowly, he wiggled his fingers and toes; they moved as bidden, but the motion caused his bounds to rub against his skin. He was tied up and blindfolded. He explored his mouth with his tongue and found that he was, at the very least, not gagged. Even so, he had no wish to make any noise until he knew what was happening.

Just as he was beginning to despair, he heard a new, different sound. Two sets of heavy, shuffling footsteps were approaching from the mouth of the cave. No doubt these two individuals were the ones who had captured his team in their sleep. Had they all been drugged? It seemed the most likely answer—surely not all of them could have slept _that_ soundly otherwise!

“Did you find anything?”

“No. Are you sure your intel is right?”

“Yeah I’m sure. I’ve seen a lot of digs out in this desert. They’re all alike.”

“Well, there’s nothing here.”

The first speaker cursed in a language that Picard could not recognize and his UT didn’t wish to translate. “The temple has got to be close, probably deeper in. Maybe it’s all there.”

“You want to go into the _temple_?” the other said, clearly nervous at the prospect. Good, perhaps a bit of piety would keep these two obvious thieves from causing any trouble. Picard had never before been so thankful for the serendipity of the universe. All of the artifacts that these two were looking for were lightyears away, now, safely nestled in the cargo bay of Boyle’s ship, on its way to the Daystrom Institute. They had missed their loot by just a few hours.

“Don’t get squeamish on me now,” the first one said, sharply. There was more of a scuffle and then a loud, unexpected screeching sound of a box of some sort being pulled over the stone floor. Reflexively, Picard flinched.

“Hey! That one’s awake!” the more nervous one said. Picard yanked backward as hands suddenly grabbed him by the shoulders, hauling up into a sitting position. He blinked owlishly the sudden brightness as the blindfold was ripped away.

“Don’t make a sound,” the first one hissed. He was a broad-shouldered Human with blond hair and a mustache. His partner in crime was also a Human male with a nervous twitch and bushy black eyebrows. Picard named them accordingly in his head.

“Where’s the stuff?” Blondie growled. He gripped Picard’s jaw hard in his hand, squeezing against the bone so viciously that pain sparked all the way up to his temples. He barely managed not to whimper. He’d never had interrogation training. That was a skill taught much later in the Academy curriculum. Picard had dealt with thieves before, but they’d never gotten the drop on him like this.

“It isn’t here,” Picard ground out, finding it difficult to speak with his face in Blondie’s vice-like grip.

The punch took him completely by surprise, especially as it came at the hands of Eyebrows, who didn’t seem like the type. The blow had been aimed true, and it left his head ringing, vision swimming for several long seconds.

“Where is it?” Eyebrows parroted, looking much more _energized_ than nervous, now.

“Not here,” Picard replied, and this time he was expecting the blow. Something cracked and blood filled his mouth. He spat and didn’t feel remotely guilty when the reddish saliva splattered on Blondie’s shirt.

“Then _where_. Where did you send it?”

Picard lifted his head, though it hurt him to do so, and smiled widely, though he felt no real joy. “On a starship, headed far away from here.”

This time as Blondie’s big fist drew back, Picard turned his head to the side and closed his eyes. The blow, however, didn’t come.

“Oh, this is just so _rude_ ,” a familiar—and admittedly beloved, in that moment—voice huffed. When Picard opened his eyes, he found Q standing there before him. The two thieves were frozen mid-motion, Blondie’s face a twisted mask of outrage, his elbow pulled back to execute what would doubtlessly have been a terrible blow. Eyebrows stood on the other side of him, his stare fixated and anticipatory in a way that made Picard distinctly uneasy.

“Q,” Picard sighed, and his whole body went limp with relief.

“ _Mon ami,_ ” Q replied, and Picard was surprised as he pushed the frozen men aside and kneeled at Picard’s side, carefully undoing Picard’s tight bonds by hand.

“Why are you--?”

“Shh. Must you take the romance out of everything?”

“Q,” Picard warned. He had just had a difficult experience, and he was not in the mood to play into Q’s usual jokes.

“Patience, I’ve been told, is a virtue,” Q said, pouting a bit as he snapped and the bonds disappeared into the ether. The entity then held Picard’s chin in his palm, the loose, warm hold completely different than the vicious grip he had been held in before. Slowly, Q passed his left hand over Picard’s face, restoring him instantly. The sudden loss of pain was bracing, to say the least. “Are you all right? Did I miss anything?”

“I’m fine now, thank you,” Picard replied, gratefully accepting the hand that Q offered him as they both got back on their feet. “My team?”

“Frozen, like these miscreants. I can wake them up none the wiser, if you want.”

“Perhaps. What will you do to the robbers?”

Q grimaced a little. “Not nearly as much as I would _like_ to do to them. My influence only extends as far as the caves, you’ll remember. I can send them away from here, but my limited powers won’t allow much else.”

“Can you restrain them?”

“Of course,” Q sniffed, offended. “I could even kill them right here, too, or turn them into tiny ants and _step_ on them, but I suppose you wouldn’t like that.”

“Not particularly,” Picard agreed. “Please, just tie them up like they did me. Only better.”

Q nodded and didn’t bother to snap, this time. Apparently presentation didn’t matter much in this instance. The men were just there one minute, suspended mid-attack, and then they were suddenly in real time again, sitting near the cave wall, wrapped up from hip to neck in thick ropes. Their blindfolds and gags were equally overdone, but Picard decided to let it go, for the moment. The sheer depth of their silent confusion was a delight to behold.

“The team,” he reminded the god.

“I know. I will. I just. Can’t I say goodbye, first?”

“Of course you may, but I’ll come and see you later. I just want to make sure everyone is all right and apprise them of the situation, first. We’ll hold these two here until Kwin returns. I’m sure she’ll be more than happy to send them off to the authorities.”

Q grinned. “I really am quite fond of that woman.”

“I am, too,” Picard replied and, catching a certain darkness in Q’s expression, he added “though not as fond as I am of you.”

“Oh, of course,” Q said with a roll of his eyes, but Picard could see he was genuinely relieved. The entity stepped forward and pulled Picard into a sudden hug. “Sorry it took me so long. It’s difficult to know what’s going on when you aren’t allowed to read anyone’s thoughts.”

“You arrived quickly enough. And, no. No mind reading.”

Q shrugged and stepped back, “If you say so. See you later, Jean-Luc.” As the god disappeared in his usual flash of light, Picard’s teammates stirred into a confused but natural wakefulness.

“Who’s thinking such terrible thoughts?” Tek Emzad murmured, rubbing at xir eyes. Xe startled slightly as xe noticed the two angry men tied up on the opposite side of the cave. “Well, this is going to be a good story, I think.”

“Uh,” Hrow said, voice small with awe, “Did you do that all by yourself, Doctor Picard?”

“…Fascinating,” T’Dara said, an eyebrow artfully quirked.

\--

Many hours later, once all had been explained—with a few choice facts omitted, of course—and the men taken away, Picard shuffled tiredly into the temple and sank slowly to his usual place before the altar. He might have been imagining it, but that particular patch of tile seemed strangely comfortable, these days.

“Well?”

Picard stifled a yawn. “All is well that ends well. The two gentlemen are wanted for several instances of petty theft and temple robbery. They’ve run out of strikes, this time. The Ventanan government intends to send them to a prison planet. Maximum security.”

“Proving once and for all that crime doesn’t pay.”

Picard hummed in soft agreement, eyes drifting closed. He was bone-weary. He’d hardly gotten enough sleep as it was, and though his injuries were all healed, the emotional and mental effects of the beating seemed to linger, making him tired and restless all at once. The sudden warmth of another body at his side was no longer startling to him; he simply leaned into it, grateful for the support. “Did I thank you for your help, before?”

Q shrugged. “Probably. It’s all right.”

“We should consider asking the Ventanan government to post security. We were lucky, this time. They weren’t very good at their jobs, and they hardly could have expected to run into _you_. Even so, I’d like to save everyone the hassle.”

“Why don’t any of you carry weapons? Even that Starfleet officer with the strong right hook didn’t have one.”

“It’s a rule of mine,” Picard replied, voice a low murmur. His head lolled against Q’s shoulder, but he was too tired to move it. “No weapons on my sites. Something went wrong, once. Never again.”

“That sounds like a story worth hearing.”

“Another time, perhaps,” Picard replied, unable to hide the yawn.

“Are you going to sleep here?” Q questioned, obviously genuinely curious.

“It seems likely.”

“Oh. Do you want me to snap up--?”

“No. It’s all right. Just stay.”

Q fidgeted a bit, nodding. “All right,” he agreed, but he received no reply as the archaeologist had surrendered himself to the deep comfort of sleep.

After convincing himself that it wasn’t _quite_ like mind-reading, Q closed his own illusion of eyes and drifted gently into the man’s dreams.

\--

_‘Q,’ he said, knowing._

_‘I couldn’t resist,’ Q explained._

_Picard was in a uniform. Red. Captain’s pips. “What is this?”_

_“I don’t know, Jean-Luc. It’s your dream.”_

_The ship was familiar. ‘Enterprise,’ Picard said, drawing one hand gently over the nearest console. ‘She’s beautiful.’ The bridge was empty, no one there but one archeologist and a captive god._

_Q had his eyes on Picard, but Picard turned and stared out of the view-screen, staring at the wide, starry expanse of space. ‘Beautiful,’ he repeated._

_Q made a sound of agreement and then followed the man’s gaze. ‘I miss that,’ the entity said._

_‘Space?’_

_‘Yes. It was home. All of it. Now there’s just the temple.’_

_Q was in uniform, too. Red. Captain’s pips. It looked strange on him, wrong in a way that Picard’s was not._

_‘There’s no brand on you,’ Picard pointed out. Q peered at his dim reflection in the view screen surface and saw it was true._

_‘I want to be free,’ Q said, and his pain was so true and present that it made Picard ache, too._

_‘You’re really here?’ Picard checked, circling around the navigation consoles to sit, after a moment of hesitation, in the empty Captain’s chair._

_‘Yes. Do you want me to leave?’ It was an invasion of privacy. Q knew that. He’d done it, anyway. It was wrong, but there were times when what was wrong seemed the best course of action._

_‘No. I want you to be here. Why here, though, I wonder? I never wanted this. I thought I did, but I was mistaken. I wanted space, but I wanted its history, not its present.’_

_‘Old, forgotten things. You do seem to like those,’ Q replied, teasing. He took the First Officer’s seat, crossed his legs in a manner far too Human._

_‘You’re not forgotten, Q.’_

_‘Yes. I am. The Laugher is remembered. But I’m not the Laugher. I’m Q.’_

_‘I still don’t understand.’_

_‘I know. That’s all right, Jean-Luc. Even I don’t understand everything. Not really.’_

_Picard reached out, taking Q’s hand in his own. He would have felt more nervous about the display in reality, but this was a dream, and dreams seemed to encourage risk. ‘What don’t you understand?’_

_‘You. I really don’t understand you. You’re a strange kind of soul, Jean-Luc Picard.’_

_‘You’re not so normal yourself, Q. Perhaps we are more alike than either of us wish to believe.’_

_Q snorted softly. ‘I would have been offended by that comparison, once.’_

_‘Oh yes?’_

_‘I was more arrogant, then.’_

_‘_ More _arrogant?’ Picard said in mock surprise._

 _Q didn’t play along with him. Instead, he looked positively glum. ‘I was banished. I had no choice but to beg the Great Family to take me in. I wish I had just drifted on alone, now. I would have been_ soterribly _lonely, but at least I would be free.’_

_‘Mon ami,’ Picard murmured, sympathetic, and Q looked up in surprise at the gentle nickname. ‘Come here.’_

_The dream shifted. Picard knew, instinctively, that they were still on a ship, but the bridge had melted away to another room, a large set of personal quarters. They lay now side by side on top of the covers of the bed. Jean-Luc didn’t want to wonder about that particular arrangement overly much. His subconscious was too powerful a foe to battle now. He pulled Q’s tall, lanky form close. The embrace was intimate and warm, but he couldn’t shy away from it. They were both past such fears, now._

_‘I’ll help you,’ Picard promised, though he knew it was going to be an impossible vow to keep. ‘I’ll help you get free.’_

_Q laughed. ‘Oh, Jean-Luc. You really are foolish, even for a mortal.’_

_And then the Enterprise broke up into the fragmented, distant pieces of thought of his more typical dreams. Q had left him to his sleep._

_\--_

Picard woke at the usual hour in his own bedroll, not entirely sure if everything—including the robbery—had not been some sort of bizarre dream. Hrow quickly dispelled him of that notion, however, as the pajama-clad Caitian scurried forward, offering the man a strong cup of tea with a cheerful, “Good morning, doctor—can you teach me how to fight like that?”

“It was really just a bit of luck,” Picard demurred, accepting the tea gratefully. He hoped the young student would let the topic drop. He didn’t care to lie to his team, but explaining the truth seemed impossible, now. _‘It wasn’t me; it was the temple god.’_

Hrow’s ears dropped in disappointment.

“But, I can show you a few moves from my Academy days, if you’d like.”

Hrow’s fangy grin was wide in response. “Thanks, Doctor Picard. I’d like that. Oh! I should hurry. I’m going to help Emzad set up the temple lab.”

Picard nodded. With his thoughts in such a whirl, he had nearly forgotten that they were finally moving their efforts into the temple itself. He hoped Q truly intended to keep his part of their bargain and not give anyone any trouble—Q had promised to assist in their excavation of the temple, scout’s honor. Even just a few weeks previous, Picard might not have believed him. Things had changed since then. They were developing…something…between the two of them, and like or not, that relationship required a good deal of trust.  

Picard also hoped that no one on his team would touch the altar until he got there. With that concern in mind, Picard finished his morning routine in record time, draining his tea to the dregs before picking up his satchels and following the rest of his team deeper into the caves.

\--

 _Laugher controls the in-betweens._  
Laugher owns the shadows, the uncertain times.  
Laugher lives in the twilight edge of the world, and the Laugher is alone. – Ventanan Devotional (partial)

_\--_

“They’ve done good work. It hasn’t looked this nice in years.”

“I told you they wouldn’t harm anything.”

“No, but that Emzad person is up to something. Xe was getting a little too up close and personal to the statues, for my tastes.”

“Good lord, Q, it’s not as if xe could steal one, even if xe wanted to, which isn’t likely. Tek Emzad is a consummate professional. They all are.”

“If you say so.”

Picard stood before the altar, passing a tricorder over the surface, frowning thoughtfully at the results. The rest of the temple had been cleared away, though it had taken the better part of seven evenings. At least they didn’t have to wait on the brief sunlit hours to work, now.

The mosaic on the floor had been brushed free of grime, the broken pieces handled with utmost care. The pattern revealed was remarkably colorful, possessing a rainbow spectrum of colors. The Thrice-Married Queen’s influence had not been applied to _that_ particular portion of the temple any more than it had to the mural-painted cave hall or—according to Q—the vases that the god so disliked. Eventually, Picard would discover more about those secrets. For now, however, it was simply a comfort to help restore the temple to its former glory—or, at least, make it look less like a demolished hovel.

“You’ll have to do something about it eventually,” Q advised, appearing with no fanfare at Picard’s side, close enough to share warmth.

“Yes. I know,” Picard said distractedly, stepping just a little closer to the splintered shrine. He didn’t like to get too close to it, and his team had instinctively avoided the area as well, even before he had warned them away.

“You can touch it. I don’t mind.”

Picard lowered his tricorder and glanced over at the god, his expression one of exasperation. “No. I shouldn’t. I don’t understand it, exactly, but I know that it’s important, and I shouldn’t touch it.”

“ _You_ can,” Q insisted, showing some exasperation of his own. “I told you, I don’t mind.”

“It’s a part of you, isn’t it? You once told me that you were like Prometheus. The temple serves as your rock, that mark on your neck acts as your chains. And this, this altar…is like Prometheus’s liver.”

Q hummed softly in response, shifting from foot to foot. He was discomfited, perhaps even nervous. Picard placed a hand on the taller man’s shoulder, squeezing gently. Q fell still and offered Picard a wry smile. “Not quite the right vital organ, Jean-Luc. It would be a more accurate analogy to say that the altar is…well…my heart.”

Picard’s own heart was whirring away, fluttering in alarm and agony both. “How long ago?”

“Oh, hundreds of mortal lifetimes. Those wretches are long dead, now. Even their great-great-great-great-great—well, you get the idea—grandchildren are no longer alive.”

Picard could hardly think of it. It was too strange and awful to comprehend. A long while ago, thousands of years, criminals had broken into the only home of a god—not Laughing now—and shattered the very core of him without a thought, tearing away all that was good and precious before stealing away into the moonlit desert night.

“Did—was it--?”

“The pain was beyond description,” Q said, staring now at the broken bits of metal and wood. “I don’t think the Family about it. They certainly hadn’t expected it, when they bound me here. Even they couldn’t possibly have been so disgustingly cruel.”

Picard had never had cause to truly hate anyone or anything in his life. He had felt anger, of course, resentment and bitterness toward some—his father, for one—but never this dark, roiling monster that churned inside of him, now. He reveled in the feeling for a while, basked in the rage, but then he pushed it aside. It would do no good at all to feel such anger toward beings who were so much like gods. They probably didn’t hear his vengeful thoughts, and even if they did, they certainly didn’t care.

“I want to fix it,” Picard said, softly. “We can remove the broken one for later analysis without compromising the site. And then we can put another in its place, with the Ventanan locals’ permission, of course.”

Q was silent for a long while, shoulder tense under Picard’s palm. Then, all tension drained away and his dark eyes drifted from the shrine to Picard’s own steady gaze. Suddenly, Picard found himself wrapped up in a tight embrace, practically smothered in it. “Thank you! Oh, thank you, Jean-Luc. For a mortal, you really are a wonderful being.”

Picard resisted the urge to roll his eyes. “You’re quite welcome, Q, but do you think you could loosen your hold a little? Mortal creatures such as myself need to breathe.”

Q relaxed his hold and soon stepped back, looking remarkably sheepish. He turned back to the altar, one of his hands still lingering against Picard’s back. “Do you think the new one could be _bigger_?”

Picard huffed a laugh. “I don’t see why not.”

\--

Kwin was the first to speak. Picard was glad for that; she was also the only one of his small team who wasn’t staring at him like he’d gone around the bend.

“Laugher’d like that, boss,” the Ventanan woman assured, bowing her head in a nod. Picard held back his smile. _That_ much he knew, already. Q had kept him up most of the night, chattering nonstop about his plans for the new shrine.

“This course of action is highly unusual. We will be required to seek official approval from the current Ventanan government,” T’Dara said, tone level but dark eyes burning with curiosity.

“The current altar makes me feel…hollow,” Emzad said, xir voice a bare whisper, steeped in all of the sorrow that Q himself did not or could not display. When xe finally looked up and met Picard’s eyes, xir expression was one of set determination. “It may not be typical procedure, but we need to do it.”

Hrow’s ears flicked back and forth. “I’m good to do whatever you think is best, Dr. Picard,” he said, all in a rush. Picard smiled at him. He’d never felt comfortable around the younger set, but Hrow had truly proven himself to be a capable, compassionate member of the team. His loyalty—even when he so clearly lacked perfect confidence—was warming.

“My position in this is obvious. So, that’s four votes for and one undecided,” Picard said, meeting the Vulcan scientist’s gaze. She paused a moment, clearly thinking it over. Finally, to Picard’s overwhelming relief, she nodded.

“I see no objection to the plan as suggested as long as we first receive the appropriate permissions.”

“Don’t worry,” Picard said, smiling at the look of mild affront the Vulcan expressed at the mere _suggestion_ that she might feel concerned. “The Ventanans will agree. I’m sure of it.”

\--

It was especially cold out in the desert. Picard stood just outside the mouth of the caves, peering through the ill-fitting night-eyes at the moon. He would miss it here, when it was time to go. That time was drawing nearer with each Venta-standard day. Six months was a short run for a dig, but the area of excavation had been small, and the temple itself had only required the most superficial of clearing away. Oh, there was plenty more to do—hundreds of recovered artifacts would need to be properly studied and preserved—but much of that work would be done off-site, perhaps even on a completely different world. Picard would follow the work, as he always had done. The problem, this time, was that Q would be left behind.

 _‘He won’t be alone any longer,’_ Picard reminded himself. He’d spoken with the Ventanan government immediately upon determining the opinion of his team. As he’d expected, the authority had been overjoyed at the suggestion of restoring the space, keen to bring the temple into the public eye once more. As a site of pilgrimage, it couldn’t be beat—and that was even discounting the fact that the god himself really _was_ right there, information that only Picard knew.

 _‘I still don’t want to leave him_ ,’ Picard thought, dreadfully unhappy, the somber beauty of the desert not helping one bit, _‘Especially not as a prisoner. I have to free him. Somehow.’_

He stood there, staring upward, for a long while, but no magic solution came to mind. It would take the Great Family itself to break Q’s chains. It seemed unlikely, especially since Q was adamant that many members of the Family were long gone, diminished by the disappearance of purpose on this desert island. _‘How does one find a god on_ purpose _?”_ Picard wondered.

Well, he certainly knew how to locate _one_ god, at least. It had gotten late. Q was probably concerned.

Picard picked up his satchel and stepped silently around his sleeping teammates, tucking the night-eyes into his bag as he walked toward the temple, grateful as ever for the steady glow of the lights. The temple seemed a little _too_ mysterious, on nights such as this.

“There you are!” Q called in greeting, his voice echoing all around. “What kept you?”

“I’m sorry. I was just finishing up a few things. The Ventanan representatives are coming tomorrow to supervise the placement of the new altar. It requires more preparation than you might think.”

The new altar was already in the temple, standing sturdy and _gorgeous_ a few feet from the installation spot. Even before they had built it, the temple had seemed a much more welcoming, comfortable space once the old, broken shrine had been removed. Picard had taken it upon himself to do most of the removal—it didn’t feel right to have the others touch the destroyed remains of Q’s old heart. Only Kwin had been allowed to assist. She was different from the others, somehow. Q trusted her almost as much as he trusted Picard. As Picard had stood there, hugging bits of broken, splintered wood to his chest, he’d found himself staggered by the sudden reminder of his own heart, also once torn and stolen away only to be replaced. His new heart, like Q’s, had also been a strange and foreign thing, at first. It was also stronger, practically guaranteeing a longer, healthier life than his organic heart could have offered. Q’s old heart had been a fragile thing, built of marshland tree wood and brittle metals. The new altar was carved from cave stone, resilient and resplendent as the statues—it would take more than just a few hungry thieves to break _that_.

“Where are you?” Picard asked the temple at large, walking around the new altar to get another look at it. He wanted everything to be perfect. Nothing could go wrong. Q’s heart was too precious to allow for any error.

“Here,” Q said, and Picard was startled at the lack of familiarity the god’s voice inspired. He turned around to face the entity, ready to express his confusion, but all words died on his lips.

Q had taken on the aspect of the Ventanan woman again. This time, however, she wore nothing but the jewelry in her ears. Unable to stop himself, Picard’s eyes flickered over her from head to toes and back again. He’d never seen a naked Ventanan in the flesh, before. His Academy xeno-anatomy textbooks had really not done them justice.

“What are you doing, Q?” he asked, more breathless than accusatory.

“Last time, you weren’t ready. You hadn’t accepted what I was, yet. You’ve touched my heart, now. Both of them. You understand—as much as you ever can understand, at least. You aren’t afraid, anymore.” The Ventanan’s ears fell back a little, her four eyes closing out of sync, a sign of some internal distress. “ _Are_ you still afraid, Jean-Luc?”

“No,” Picard said, and he was somewhat surprised to discover that he was being perfectly honest. “I’m not afraid.”

“I want to thank you,” Q said, holding up a hand to ward off Picard’s rising argument, “but that’s not the only reason. I…I care for you. As much as I’ve ever cared for anything that wasn’t of the Continuum. I want…I’d like to--.” Q sighed, hand falling limp at her side. “It’s so hard to express in _words_ , Picard.”

Picard stepped forward. There was far too much space between them, suddenly. He hesitated a moment but soon placed his hands on the Ventanan’s wide, bare hips. ‘Merde, _her skin is even softer than I remembered.’_ Picard looked up, meeting her gaze. “I want this, too, Q.”

Q’s smile was blinding in its intensity, all emotion laid bare. Picard almost had to close his eyes against it, but he gathered his courage and smiled back. “Oh, Jean-Luc,” Q purred, her voice a low rumble as she leaned forward for a kiss. She blinked rapidly when the Human pulled away.

“It’s all right,” Picard assured quickly, rushing to explain himself before any misunderstandings could arise. “This form is very beautiful. I would like to explore you—her—more thoroughly, someday. I know, for you, it makes little difference, perhaps, but to me--.”

Q’s smile returned, softer. The Ventanan figure wavered, the transformation so smooth that Picard nearly missed it. The man Picard thought of as Q pulled his characteristic smirk. “I understand. Around you, this feels a little more ‘me’ to me, too. But are you sure…?”

Picard laughed softly, shifting his weight forward until they touched in a loose, full-body embrace. Q made a soft, husky moan of surprise. “I’m sure,” Picard said, and followed the declaration by moving his hands to Q’s collar and pulling the taller man down for a kiss.

\--

Kwin cried as they set the new altar in its supports. They were unquestionably tears of joy, but Picard couldn’t help but feel that there was more than simple piety in play. Her joy was so loud, so bright, that it nearly rivaled his own, and he had a personal stake in the proceedings that she did not.

The rest of his team were more subdued, though they, too, were happy and full of great pride. Picard didn’t blame them. While the removal of Q’s old altar had fallen primarily on his and Kwin’s shoulders, the building of the new shrine had been a joint effort, requiring all hands. A little piece of all of them was there: Picard had helped with the initial designs, guided by Q himself. T’Dara had helped to chisel the ancient Ventanan script into the stone with Vulcan precision. Hrow had polished the stone until it gleamed. Kwin had performed some secret Ventanan rituals to bind the altar to the god himself. Even Boyle, so far out in space, had called on some of his Starfleet connections on to find the perfect gems—not as precious as the first altar’s, to be sure, but beautiful all the same. And it was Tek Emzad, their expert in the art of civilizations long dead, who had set each of those gems in their place, positioned in beautiful patterns that invoked the joy, the light, and the slightest touch of menace that suited the Laugher so.

Time and circumstance demanded that none of them would stay in this place forever, but they would all leave something of their own souls behind.

One of the Ventanan government’s representatives—an older male—shook Picard’s hand forcefully after the ceremony and then added a Ventanan embrace, his stubbly cheeks warm against Picard’s own. “You have done our people a great service, Dr. Picard. We cannot possibly thank you enough.”

Picard smiled. He’d been waiting for such an opportunity all day. “Well, actually, Regent, I think you can…”

\--

“That’s the last of it, doctor,” Hrow said, wiping the sweat from his furry brow with a soft rag. “Anything else I can do?”

Picard stuck out his hand to the young man. Hrow’s face lit up as he shook it—apparently he hadn’t much experience with the Human gesture, yet. “No, Hrow, that’s all. Thank you for your service on this dig—you were truly a boon to our project, and a true joy to work with. I will be sending my letter of recommendation as soon as possible.”

Hrow’s smile grew. “Thank you. Thank you so much, sir. I’ll be sure to send you a communiqué when I get into the Academy.”

“Please do. And, when you’ve settled yourself there in San Francisco, do me a favor?”

“Anything, sir.”

“Give my regards to the groundskeeper. His name is Boothby. He was a good friend of mine in my Academy days, and he’ll be a good friend to you, too, I wager.”

Hrow nodded his agreement and then made his apologies, stepping away to tell the rest of the team goodbye.

The time had come. The excavation was complete. The temple’s final restorations were also in their final stages. The worshipers would be trickling in one by one in just a few days. Picard took a deep breath, casting his gaze over the sunny sands. The suns would be setting, soon, and with them would some of the best people he’d ever had the honor to know.

“It’s amazing, isn’t it, how six short months can completely alter one’s life?”

Picard smiled over at Tek Emzad. Xe returned the smile and lifted a hand, placing xir palm gently on his cheek. “I will miss you, Jean-Luc Picard.”

“And I you, Tek Emzad. Where will you be going now?”

“Oh, hither and yon. Perhaps back to Betazed. A friend of mine is getting married.”

“Oh?”

“Yes. To a Human Starfleet officer, in fact. I wasn’t sure of him, at first, but having met you and Mr. Boyle, now, my mind is more at ease.”

“I’m not Starfleet.”

“A technicality,” Emzad argued. Xe patted his cheek lightly once more and then swung xirself easily into Kwin’s car. “Perhaps I’ll come visit, next season. If you’ll have me.”

“Of course.”

T’Dara came to him with Kwin in tow. “It has been a satisfactory experience,” T’Dara said, “I have learned much.”

“That’s all anyone can hope for, I suppose,” Picard replied, and made a clumsy ta’al.

“Peace and long life, Picard.”

“Goodbye. Be well.”

The Vulcan nodded solemnly and stepped up into the car. _‘It’s going to be a tight fit,’_ Picard thought, amused.

Kwin caught his eye, grinning at him in a way that suggested that she had guessed at his thoughts and enjoyed the joke. “See you in a few days, boss. You sure you got everything you need on that list?”

“If not, I’ll send you a message.”

“Good luck with that! ‘Net around here is _Laugher’takka._ ”

Picard blinked, “Ah, that…didn’t quite translate.”

Kwin’s grin was more knowing than Picard was particularly comfortable with. “No problem, Picard. Ask someone else, maybe they can tell you.” And with that the Ventanan woman jumped into the driver’s seat of the car.

The team gazed back, some of them waving and shouting their final farewells, as they sped over the sands and toward the far horizon, the light of the suns a rapidly dwindling memory against the lavender night skies.

Picard slipped his night-eyes on and watched until long after he could no longer see them. Q was waiting for him at the mouth of the cave as he returned, trying very hard not to get too tangled up in his new robes.

“Finally, the kids are gone and we have the house to ourselves,” Q greeted, brightly. “Nice digs, by the way. The priestly look is good on you.”

Picard sighed. He’d been expecting these jokes, but even expectation couldn’t protect him from the onslaught as he walked with a determined gait toward the temple, Q bouncing excitedly after him.

“Oh, Picard. This is so thrilling. Finally, you are in the position—innuendo fully intended—to worship me as I’ve always deserved. Oh, the things I can teach you about the proper use of _mud_ \--.”

\--

_‘There are many temples to the Laugher on the desert island of the Married Monarchy, though far fewer now than in the reign of the Thrice-Married Queen. Each temple has its own place in the cultural history of the Ventanan people and in the theological history specific to the Laughing God._

_Of all the temples looming in those moonlit desert sands, however, the most notable is that of the Hidden Smile. This temple was lost to time thousands of years before the current monarchy, but was excavated by a team of archaeologists from the Daystrom Institute in the year 2370. Archaeology buffs will be especially interested to note that this was the last professional dig of renowned archaeologist Jean-Luc Picard. Much to the surprise of friends, family, and academic peers, Picard chose at the end of the six-month excavation to remain behind. Not only did Picard choose to retire on the island, he specifically converted to the ways of the Ventanan and became an acolyte of the Laugher! Strange but true. Picard lived out the remainder of his days in the unearthed temple, acting as guide and guardian to any and all who came to worship or seek counsel there._

_Today, the Temple of the Hidden Smile is still open to the public—even tourists!—though it’s several hours by Venta-standard transport to get there from the nearest oasis, which in itself is a good days travel from a main city. Still, if you are up to a bit of a trek, the temple is highly recommended as an area of interest for anyone with a taste for Ventanan history. Be sure to check out the altar, which was made by Picard and his team themselves as a replacement for the one they found broken during the excavation process—the altar is made of pure Venta cave-marble and is inset with fifteen differing kinds of precious gems from all over known Federation space.’ – Traveling Venta: A Guide to Good Tourism_

_\--_

“What are you doing out there?” Q called irritably from the mouth of the cave.

All of the worshipers had gone away with the light of the suns. Picard had always made it a practice to watch them go. Hours had passed since that moment, however, and still he stood, hand hovering above old eyes that had long ago become too compromised to be bothered much by the glaring light of the moon on the sand.

“Jean-Luc,” Q sighed, stepping forward. Picard stood on the wrong side of his boundary line. Q couldn’t reach him. “ _Mon amour,_ please. It’s too cold for this. You’ll get sick again.”

Picard smiled at the moon. “You’ll just heal me again, like you always do.”

“Yes, well. Haven’t you heard that prevention is better than the cure? Come back inside.”

“I miss them, sometimes.”

Q frowned, following his lover’s gaze up. The stars where there, mocking in their twinkling light. Q had frolicked among those stars, once. He had played games with comets, had aligned planets with a mere thought. All of the cosmos had been his to do with as he wished. “Yes,” he sighed. “I do, too.”

Jean-Luc turned and came back, shuffling awkwardly on old, aching bones, back over the line. Q immediately reached for him, ignoring the way such proximity to the invisible border made his teeth vibrate in his skull. “You are a foolish old man,” Q scolded, resigning himself to act as living crutch.

“You’re a foolish old god,” Jean-Luc retorted. Not one of his better banters, but Picard had been moving a good deal slower the last several days. It was nearly time, Q knew, and it hurt him more deeply than stepping outside of the length of his chains ever could.

“Have I ever told you the one about me and the stars?” Q asked, forcing a cheerfulness into his tone that he didn’t feel.

“Yes,” Picard grumbled, but when Q fell silent, he tugged a bit at the strong arm that supported him, “well? Go on.”

Q smirked and began, his free hand gesturing expressively as he told his tale. “Once, Laugher was traveling…”

\--

  _Once, Laugher was traveling along, and he came upon the land of the dead._

_“Well, this is tedious,” Laugher sniffed, brushing the ghosts of the long-forgotten aside._

_“You should show more respect for the dead’uns, boss,” said the Death Goddess, though she was laughing. Laugher had always made her smile, and now was no exception._

_“Why? They’re just dead. Any mortal can do that. It isn’t so impressive.”_

_“Yes,” the goddess agreed, “but all these souls lived good, long lives, and they’ve lost it now. You should be kind to those who have lost something so precious, Laughing One.”_

_“If you want to pander to the frail emotions of the immortally-stunted, go right ahead,” Laugher shrugged. “I don’t see what the fuss is about.”_

_“Not now, perhaps,” the goddess agreed, smiling patiently, “but someday you might. Someday, you might lose quite a lot indeed. That day comes, brother, I hope someone’ll be there to take care of your sad soul.”_

_Laugher laughed at her, unconvinced. He liked that goddess well enough—she laughed at his jokes, after all—but he didn’t want to stick around for more strange talk such as hers. Instead, he pointed up, up, up through the whole of the Venta, gesturing out at the big, dark sky. “Have you seen any stars around here? I’ve lost them, you see, and that Mother of yours is having a fit.”_

_The Death Goddess laughed and stood from her throne, caressing each spirit as she passed by. She took the Laugher’s hand in hers, following his all-seeing eyes with her own. “No, I’ve not seen them. Know where to look, though. Want to try it?”_

_The Laugher agreed, and the gods went off to reclaim the misplaced stars._

_\--_

“They always end…so suddenly, your stories,” Picard whispered. His head was in Q’s lap. Q’s hand rested over his forehead, keeping the fevers at bay with his touch.

“That’s the nature of life, Picard. It drops you in the middle, goes along for a while in the oddest of ways, and then it just--.”

Picard opened his eyes. His smile was sad. “It stops.”

“Yes,” Q agreed, and his voice broke. “This isn’t fair,” he sniffed, sounding for all the world like a small child and not an all-powerful entity with mastery over all things.

 _‘Well, everything but death,’_ Picard thought, reaching up to cup a shaking hand over his lover’s cheek. “You’ll be all right.”

“And you call _me_ a liar.”

“I learned from the best.”

Picard’s eyes closed, his hand falling limply back to his chest. Q held breath he didn’t even need. “Don’t,” he whispered, a plea to himself or Picard or the universe at large, he wasn’t certain.

“Jean-Luc,” Q said, just as softly. There was no response. Q sobbed, wrapping his arms around the frail mortal body and holding it close, crying in a manner that he had learned long ago from mortal beings, watching as they, too, had broken down over the ones that they had loved. The temple went too hot and too cold, sparking with tiny supernovas, going dark as pitch and airless as space before flaring again into over-bright light and filling up with the noise of a formless, primal howl. Chaos overcame the small—oh, so small—prison, and Q and the body sat in the middle, protected in the eye of the storm.

A hand, slim and soft, cupped the nape of Q’s neck. He jerked in surprise at the touch, the temple snapping back to its status quo at the lurch. “Who--?”

Kwin crouched down beside her brother god, smiling warmly at him, her eyes alight with galaxies, her death-dark skin dappled with the glow of the very stars. “Hello, Laugher.”

“ _You_ ,” Q breathed, astonished. “All this time?”

The Death Goddess nodded. “Me. All this time.”

Q’s baffled expression morphed into a twist of despair and rage. “How _could you--why didn’t you--.”_

“Shush, Laugher. It’s not my place to intervene, is it? Death is my place, nothing else.”

“You’re still alive,” Q breathed, and there was hope, there, and a no small bit of joy. He’d always rather liked her, his adopted sister goddess.

Kwin shrugged and showed off those bucked teeth, so like the ones he wore in his current form. “Always going to be a need for me, Laugher. Never going to stop being, not me.”

Q hiccupped a little at that, his eyes drifting down to the empty body he held so possessively. “Will you?”

Kwin smiled, but it was sad. “Death is my place, Laugher,” she repeated. “Not life.”

Q shook his head miserably, hiding his face against Picard’s neck. “This is torment. This is the worst possible punishment they ever could have given me,” he mumbled.

“Yes,” Kwin agreed. “But you learned from it.”

“Did I?” Q whispered, tone going flat. He hurt too much to feel, anymore. He wanted to stop.

“Yes,” Kwin pressed. She tangled her fingers in his brown curls and tugged, forcing him to meet her four-eyed gaze. “Listen to me, brother. _You learned_.”

Q stared at her without comprehension for a long time, and then his dark eyes widened, his hand flying up to press against his neck. “It’s gone,” he said, because he could feel it, now, the place where the bounding mark had been and was no longer. “ _It’s gone!_ I’m free! I’m--!” His joy was a bright flash that died as quickly as a candle flame in the breeze. He looked away from Kwin back to Picard.

“Jean-Luc,” he whispered as if just for the man’s ears only, “I’m _free_.” And then he burst into tears anew while his sister wrapped her arms snugly about his shoulders and whispered words of brittle comfort in his ear.

\--

The cosmos were much too big. Just _thinking_ about them made something tighten in his chest. He took to standing at the edge of where his chain used to hold him, toes right up against the line that no longer existed, eyes staring out at the endless expanse of the sands.

Pilgrims came in and out of his temple but never recognized the god standing in their midst. Q wasn’t surprised by that. He’d seen himself in the reflective surface of his altar. There was far, far too much sadness in his eyes to make him seem anything but horribly, painfully Human.

“You going to do it today?” Kwin asked. She looked a little different to him since she’d revealed herself that night, but it was only the faintest of glimmers. Her eyes were too sad for a goddess, too. A hundred times each day, he thought about asking her who _she_ had lost, but he felt that it was probably more complicated than that. Death often was.

“I don’t know,” Q replied. He couldn’t lie to her any more than he could himself. And, in all truth, he really didn’t know. He knew absolutely everything about the entirety of the universe, all of space and time, and he could _go_ there, too. But he didn’t know his own mind, anymore, and he couldn’t cross a hidden line in the shifting sands.

“I might just stay here,” Q confessed one night as he and Kwin stood there at the line, watching the stars turn.

“Why? You gonna to wait for him to come back?”

“Will he?”

“’Death is possessive; she will not let them go.’”

Q grimaced. “I’ve always found that one to be particularly trite.”

“Trite but true,” Kwin said, and she was there to hold on to him as he sunk to his knees in the sands, broken down all over again.

\--

“The Vulcan wants to visit,” Q told Kwin.

“You should let her.”

“I don’t want to see any of them. They don’t even know I’m here.”

“Let her come, Q,” Kwin said, firmly. “Her and all the others, too. It’s time. Let them say their goodbyes to him. They deserve that much.”

So Q sighed, and he stopped fighting against those mortal souls and their idle thoughts of ‘remember that time? Maybe I should go back.’

They all arrived the same day. The universe was funny like that.

The Vulcan looked much the same, but the rest of them had aged. Boyle was an old man, hunched over and breathing with the assistance of distasteful metal contraption that made Q shudder. Tek Emzad had gone grey at the temples and had gained many more lines around xir eyes, but xe was just as graceful as ever. Hrow had grown into his once lanky form, all muscle and control—Starfleet training had served him well, and he looked quite a lot younger than his middle-aged years. Kwin, as she stepped out of the car, had affected the illusion of time, as well, but she still smiled like a young adolescent, all full of guile.

Q remained hidden and watched them as they moved, _en masse,_ into the caves as they had done so, so many years before.

He listened to their idle chatter as they ooh’ed and ahh’ed over the new murals, as they spoke so fondly of Picard and showed such pride in all that the man had accomplished here, in the temple that had for so many eons been Q’s prison and only hope. His chains were gone, and the temple was no longer the rock to which he was bound. All the same, the altar had not changed; it was still and always would be his heart.

As the team approached the stone altar—still as glimmering and shiny as the day it was made—something _shifted_ in Q’s all-knowing perception.

 _‘What is that?’_ Q demanded, spreading his essence out in an attempt to locate the oddity in his personal universe.

T’Dara approached the altar first, the closest anyone had dared stepped to it in decades—all the pilgrims had an instinctive knowledge, responding to the warning of DO NOT TOUCH. T’Dara, it seemed, had no such qualms. Despite this, Q couldn’t bring himself to ward her away. It was _his_ heart, to be sure, but a piece of T’Dara was there, too. Her hands had pulled the script from the stone. Her mind—so clear, so logical—had brought the words to light. Emzad stepped beside her and placed xir fingertips gently on the stones that xe had so artfully positioned. The precious gems seemed to shine with an added light at xir touch. Hrow admired his face in the shiny surface of the rock and then added his own touch to the surface, palm flat against it. Boyle was more hesitant, but Q found that niggling need to approach in the man’s thoughts and he pushed at it, encouraging. _‘Oh, go on, then, I suppose.’_

The man’s touch was like a promise. Something electric spiked at the back of Q’s awareness, building and building but to what purpose Q had no idea whatsoever. It was exciting and terrible all at once.

Then Kwin stepped forward, the last of the lot, and each step she took drained those false years from her form until she stood before the altar, young and pretty with far-too-wise eyes. She closed the outer two of them as she leaned forward, placing her palms with her friends’ against the stone.

It was like a circuit closing. Q shouted out in surprise at the sensation of it, trying to twist away—it was too much feeling, too much euphoria too fast, too much—but held fast by some force that he dimly recognized but couldn’t quite name. The last time he’d felt that touch, he had also been fighting, but that touch had burned, had hurt him as it lashed him to this temple, as it marked every face he’d ever worn as _prisoner_. But now, now, that hold was gentle, was all around him, whispering at him to just wait, to hold still, to let it be.

And while he’d rather kick all of the Family in the _teeth_ than do as _they_ told him—he did. And everything was warm, was light, was _goodness;_ he felt every one of those little mortal souls, and one bigger, ageless soul, and his own soul, and—and another, in the distance, coming closer.

 _‘Jean-Luc!’_ all of him cried out, and then it all disappeared, and he spiraled away into nothingness like a thread unraveling from a greater whole.

\--

They perched somewhere in the vast, wondrous cosmos, and watched the galaxies roll by.

“Is this what it is to be a god?” Picard asked, his amusement sparkling against Q’s awareness like bubbles in a champagne glass. “You just sit and enjoy the cosmic equivalent of watching the grass grow?”

“Some days,” Q replied, not even bothering to pretend that the question annoyed him. He couldn’t be annoyed, not now.

“You still look like…you,” Picard hazard, affecting the illusion of squinting at him. Picard looked younger, in this space, even younger than when he and Q had first met.

“You look like you, too,” Q shrugged. “It’s just affectation. You could be whatever you want, now.”

“I think I’ll stay me,” Picard replied, dryly. “As much as I can be, now, anyway.”

Q rolled his eyes and wrapped himself around the other, pulling them close in and around and with each other. “Don’t be stupid, Jean-Luc. You’ll always be you. You couldn’t possibly be anyone else.”

“Should I play the game as you do, now? Go down to some hapless planet and make myself a god?”

“If you want to. I’d rather not, myself. My days of being worshipped are over, I think. It’s too dangerous.”

“What about the Family?”

“They let me go, and they gave me you. I’m grateful for that. But the next time I see one of them, I won’t be very civil, and I’d rather not push my luck.”

“What will we do, then? Go back to the Continuum?”

Q sighed, and the whole universe sighed with him. “I don’t know. Perhaps. Do we have to decide right now?”

Picard’s smile was downright _improper_. “Oh, no. We don’t have to decide anything right now.” And Q was pleased to learn that Picard was, as ever, a quick study when it came to metaphysical pleasures, and for Q it was a lot like riding a bike. You just never forgot how it was done.

\--

_There are forces in the universe that mortal minds cannot even begin to comprehend. These are powerful entities with abilities far beyond any current understanding of our universe. They are the types of creatures to whom we pray when we look up at the stars—beings out of sight but never quite out of mind. They could destroy, conquer, dominate, and, in short, cause us endless harm._

_But, to my mind, all they really do is watch us blunder through in our own paltry way. And, sometimes, if we’re lucky, they laugh. – Admiral Adrian Boyle, “What God Won’t Tell You and Other Little Thoughts”_


End file.
